Tangled Webs
by Adali
Summary: A schoolyard fight at Hogwarts sets off a cascade of events which will irrevocably change the lives of both Ginny and Draco, as their choices and secrets from the past suddenly catch up to them. Draco/Ginny. Post-DH, Ep compliant
1. Prologue

Many, many thanks to my betas for this: Alexx, Lynn, Jenn, and Kathy.

* * *

**Prologue  
**_In which there is a train, and lots of work to be done_  
Friday, September 1, 2017

James Potter had burnished copper locks and a Seeker's build. He was _not _a weedy, red-haired runt. Anyone who dared argue was fixed with a level, storm-coloured stare that shut their mouth faster than any hex. The only exception was his whining, sniveling brat of a brother, who seemed to think that just because he looked like their father, he was in some way superior to James. Slimy git. He took after his namesake far more than he did either of their parents, in James's view. And even if Harry Potter insisted Severus Snape was one of the bravest wizards he'd ever known, James had seen pictures: the man had been a grease-ball.

Better that the little bastard be Sorted into Hufflepuff: he wasn't smart, brave or ambitious enough to fit into any of the other Houses, and that way James wouldn't have to look at his stupid, holier-than-thou face and bloody green eyes. Having his grandmother's eyes didn't make him any less of a git.

Somewhere behind him he could hear Uncle Ron admonishing Rosie about something; probably Slytherins or Malfoys or some other evil. Looking at the scrawny, effeminate little boy with his curling, dirty-blond hair, that Uncle Ron seemed convinced was the spawn of Satan, James couldn't help but smile a little to himself. If that was the worst Hogwarts could boast by way of evil wizards, well... it was amusing.

"Stop smirking," his mother whispered in his ear. "I don't want an _incident _here." James's features snapped into carefully-schooled emptiness in an instant. It was the safest expression to wear around his father, especially when the man was already wound tighter than a spring. He watched as Harry Potter met the eyes of a blond man at the other end of the platform, and the two exchanged careful, cordial nods. The blond man's expression could have been a mirror of the boy's own, and James found himself wondering if he, too, knew about Harry Potter's _incidents_. As far as James was aware, no one outside the family and a few close friends knew about them, and the man - Mr. Malfoy, judging by Uncle Ron's reaction - seemed nothing like a close friend. Perhaps he was just naturally guarded.

Mr. Malfoy bent to speak quietly to his son. Out of the corner of his eye, James could see his father doing the same with Albus.

"That, James, is what a complete git looks like," Uncle Ron told him, clapping him on the shoulder. _Drat_, James thought. Uncle Ron had noticed where his attention lay, and now he was in for a lecture on the eternal evils of the Slytherin House. He was saved, rather unexpectedly, by his mother.

"Bugger off, Ron," she told him sharply. "Don't poison him with those old prejudices."

Amazingly, Uncle Ron did exactly as he was told, slouching off back to his wife and muttering to himself. James looked up at his mother. Her face was tight with irritation, and she was glaring at her brother's retreating back. He knew she had a sharp temper, but she rarely let it show these days; Uncle Ron had obviously forgotten it existed.

"Stop scowling," he whispered to her. "We don't want an _incident _here." His weak smile tried to make a joke of his mimicry of her earlier words. She met his eyes, and her expression relaxed, back into the kind, docile geniality most people saw.

"You're a good boy, Jimmy," she said, and gave him a kiss on the temple. "Off you go. The train'll be leaving in a minute." Her deep, golden eyes - why did everyone else only see brown? - added emphasis to the message. The sooner he was out of sight, the better. He gave her a peck on the cheek and scampered onto the train, losing himself in the crowd of students. _Out of sight, out of mind. _It had been his policy for years when it came to dealing with his father and until he was a fully-trained wizard - until he was the greatest wizard in the world - it would be the only one.

Because James, despite what his mother said, was not a good boy. James was an eternal disappointment, forever failing to live up to the imagined glory of his namesake. He was a troublemaker. A hellion. He'd never be Head Boy or the captain of the Quidditch team. If there was a fight among the siblings, it was always his fault, even if he wasn't involved. If he hadn't been sorted into Gryffindor, he suspected Harry Potter would have disowned him outright. Because James wasn't, and never would be, James Sirius Potter II. No matter what his birth certificate said, he was the one and only Jimmy Weasley, and bugger the rest.

* * *

Ginny watched the Hogwarts Express pull away from the station. Things would be much quieter this year, with only Hugo and Lily left to be entertained. Three more Weasleys and a Potter shipped off to Hogwarts this year: it had to be some kind of record. Likely only the Blacks had ever had more family members there together at one time, and they had always been a more diverse group than the easily identifiable Weasleys.

Around them, the platform was rapidly clearing. Ron and Harry were talking quietly, hopefully about something work related. _Of course it is_, Ginny thought. This was Ron, after all. He might not be the quickest on the uptake, but he understood Harry better than almost anyone. She need not fear he'd say something stupid.

Hugo and Lily were hanging onto Hermione's hands, jumping up and down and demanding treats because they weren't allowed to go to Hogwarts again this year, for all the world as though they were five instead of nine. Bill had seen his three to the platform, then departed in a rush for work. George hadn't come, even though it was Fred's first year; it had been up to Hermione and Ron to bring the boy. _What a family_, Ginny thought. Big, dysfunctional, problematic... but under the stern eye of Molly Weasley, it all seemed to still work, somehow. If not for Molly, then they might all have fallen apart years ago.

"We're going to head off to work," Ron announced. "You'll be alright getting home on your own?" he asked Ginny. A subtle push from Ron prompted Harry to give her a kiss on the cheek, then the one-time Golden Trio Apparated away to the Ministry to begin their day's work, leaving Ginny with Hugo and Lily. _Always picking up the mess, that's me_, she thought resignedly, putting on a big smile as she promised the two a stop at the sweet shop while she ran errands in Diagon Alley.

* * *

They found him in the third-to-last compartment on the train, his nose buried in a book. In the center of the compartment an elaborate card castle was being constructed of Exploding Snap cards, each one flicked into place with a casual wand gesture. He probably couldn't even see it from behind the big book, but still he built unerringly. The boy really was a study in practiced concentration and patience, one thought. They shuffled into the compartment, not wanting to intrude but knowing their presence was expected.

"Have a seat," he said, at once dismissive and gracious. They did as they were told, sitting attentively on the train bench opposite him. Long minutes stretched out before the book closed with a snap, and the card model of Hogwarts castle was sent back to its box.

"So," he said, meeting the eyes of each of the three opposite him in turn, "how was your summer?"

* * *

Scorpius Malfoy, sole heir to Malfoy Enterprises and the ancestral holdings and properties of both the Malfoy and Destrier families, huddled behind his Quidditch magazine and hated his father. He'd wanted to go to Beauxbatons, as his mother had, but Father wouldn't stand for it. He had insisted Scorpius be sent away from his beloved France to dreary Scotland, to study in this provincial little hole.

Mama had screamed, and thrown priceless vases and statuettes, and locked herself in her room for days, all to no avail. Father had spent those days in his study, reviewing the last financial quarter as though nothing was wrong. A week ago, Mama had stormed into the study, dumped Father's tea over his head, and declared that she would commit suicide if forced "to do without _ma puce_"_._ Father had ignored her until she pulled out her wand and pointed it at his beloved financial summaries. Then he had simply asked what kind of flowers she wanted at her funeral.

So here he was, on board this mouldy old train on his way to a mouldy old castle in the middle of nowhere, to suffer through seven years of hell. Mama had gone to stay with her parents for an indefinite period of time, which seemed to faze Father not at all. He, as he had told Scorpius, would be staying in London for the time being, because the next few years were a critical time for the growth of Malfoy Enterprises.

"There's room in this compartment," a voice said as the door slid open. _Of course there is, _Scorpius thought acerbically. Most of these English brats knew better than to encroach upon the space of one who was so obviously their superior, but apparently this quartet was too dense. Well, three of them, at least: the fourth, a thin, willowy blond with a copper tint to her pale-gold hair, was quite obviously refined.

"But Al, Daddy said I was to stay away from him. He's a bad lot," a red-haired girl announced. Scorpius sneered at her, letting her know exactly what he thought of her and her Daddy.

The black-haired boy who had first spoken - Al; what a nasty, common name - shrugged. "He looks pretty harmless to me."

"But..." the red-head protested.

"Nonsense, Rosie. Your father, he has bias, no?" The other girl swept in and offered one hand, daintily, to Scorpius. "I am Gabrielle Delacour-Weasley," she informed him, as graciously as any properly-raised young woman. He took her hand gracefully and brushed a kiss across her knuckles.

"Scorpius Destrier-Malfoy. _Enchante._" Perhaps there was some hope for this rustic hell-hole after all, if there were a few more civilized folk like her.

"And these," Gabrielle waved a languid hand at her entourage, "are my cousins. Frederick, Rosalind and, of course, Albus." The others murmured a polite hello, Rosalind still watching him suspiciously. "Sit, sit," she ordered the others. She herself dropped into the seat next to Scorpius and looked at his magazine with interest. "Do you like Quidditch?" she asked. The other three were murmuring among themselves, but Scorpius ignored them and focussed on Gabrielle.

"I've never really played," he admitted. "We play polo at home, so of course I'm a very good flyer. Father thought I might try for the Quidditch team." He didn't add that Father had sneered when he said it. Father didn't think much of the delicate niceties of Wizard Polo, nor the 'milk-sop' fliers that played it. But then, Father was disparaging of a lot of things.

Gabrielle was nodding. "Oh, yes. My sister used to play polo, before Uncle Charlie found out. He made her switch to Quidditch too," she added, as though imparting a great secret.

"Uncle Charlie was right," Albus piped up from the other side of the compartment. Scorpius sent him a withering sneer that said he had not been included in this conversation. "Don't bothering sneering at me, Malfoy. It doesn't do anything."

"Yours is nothing like so scary as James's," Frederick added. Albus glared at his cousin, who shrugged. "I really don't see what your fuss is, Rosie. If he's an evil wizard he should at least be able to out-sneer James."

"Foo," Gabrielle said, as though pronouncing judgment on the entire matter. "James's sneer is very lovely." Only this girl, Scorpius thought, could say that and have it be a compliment. "My sister likes Quidditch," she added, returning to their previous subject. "I'm sure you will too." Her eyes lit up very suddenly, and Scorpius would be the first to admit it made her very pretty indeed. "Why, you must be Draco Malfoy's son, no?"

"Yes." Father was quite well-known in England, or so Mama had said, although in the two hours since they had arrived on the platform Scorpius had begun to suspect he was somewhat notorious, rather than simply well-known.

"Then we are related too," Gabrielle declared happily. For some strange reason, something seemed to sink in the pit of Scorpius's stomach. "Let me think... your great-grandfather's sister married the brother of my great-grandfather's sister-in-law, I think. Which makes you..." Her delicate lips moved silently as she tried to work it out. _Not related at all, _Scorpius thought, with a strange feeling of relief. "Oh, but perhaps on the other side..." Gabrielle continued. "My great-grandmother was a veela, and so was your great-great-grandmother, I think... but of course veela don't keep genealogy in the same way as wizards..."

Across the compartment, Albus sighed. "Ignore her," he advised. "She'll come back to the present eventually."

Gabrielle stuck out her tongue at him. "I happen to find our family history interesting, thank you. In any case, Scorpius, we are cousins," she declared, giving him a hug as though he were in fact her long-lost brother. _Perhaps, _Scorpius thought as Rosalind started protesting against being related to him at all, _I can put up with these others. _At least for the sake of Gabrielle.

* * *

George was tinkering in his workshop when his sister arrived. She came by every day, whenever she found a chance to leave the children with Molly. She had been invaluable to his work all these years, helping him in his research and the development of new products for WWW. Over the years, Ginny had become such an integral part of the company that George didn't think he'd be able to let her go, even when Fred came back. Well, Fred would understand that, so it wouldn't be a problem.

"The pogrebin skins?" he asked hopefully as she set a package down on the bench.

"They finally arrived," Ginny answered. "Are you sure nothing else will work? Luna managed to get them for us this time, but I doubt we'll be able to import enough for a decent production run."

George sighed. "I'm trying. You know that was always..." he trailed off. He'd promised himself he wouldn't think in those terms: it wasn't fair to Fred.

"I know," Ginny said hurriedly. "I was just wondering if anything had occurred. I'll check my books, and see if there was a successful substitution in anything else."

He felt the corners of his mouth lift weakly. "Thanks, Gin. You're a life-saver."

"Oh, hush. I brought lunch, too."

* * *

It was only mid-afternoon, and already he was exhausted. It felt good, though. The physical tiredness of rushing around London's Wizarding business district to a seemingly-endless line-up of meetings and presentations, the mental exhaustion that came of always being that one step ahead, knowing everything first and most intimately so he could plan accordingly... the exhilaration of doing it right, time and again. Other business-wizards thought there was something uncanny about him, and the way he and his companies always came out on top. Oh, there were whispers of corruption and unsavoury business dealings, but nothing ever stuck.

_And nothing ever will, _he thought with satisfaction. He was successful because he worked hard and thought ahead, and for no other reason. With his chequered past, he couldn't afford the slightest whiff of the underhanded to come from his company: a discrepancy in the petty cash and the watch-dogs would be screaming that he was murdering children in developing countries or something equally horrible. He wouldn't let all that he had worked so hard for fall prey to their small-minded vindictiveness. His parents might call their exile voluntary, but they had been driven from the country all the same. He wasn't about to let the same happen to him.

A discrete vibration of the magic mirror in his pocket announced a call from his head secretary. He smoothed the tiredness from his face and pulled it out.

"Mr. Malfoy, the delegation from Turkey has arrived early," the man said.

"I'll be right there," he assured the man, putting the mirror away. Time - and Turkish businessmen - waited for no man, not even Draco Malfoy.

* * *

"We're home!" After the way the door had slammed, Ron's shouted announcement was largely unnecessary, but it had become his habit over the last few years, so Ginny didn't mind. It added a semblance of normalcy. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and made her way to the front hall, where Hermione, Ron, Harry and Arthur were all hanging up their work cloaks. To most people, it seemed strange to have three families - or even just such a large extended family - living in a single house, but Ginny liked it. It worked for them.

Hugo and Lily came bounding down the stairs to throw themselves at any adult with open arms. Molly came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands as Ginny had done, and giving a welcoming hug to each of the returning family members, just as she did every day.

"Go wash your hands now," she ordered kindly. "Supper's almost ready. Hugo, would you go fetch your Uncle George in?"

"Sure Grandmum." The boy scampered off, no doubt hoping for a bit of extra dessert as a reward for his helpfulness. _Little scamp, _Ginny thought with an inward sigh. _As though we'd forget those pastries he nicked not two hours ago._

"Ginny." Harry gave her a careful kiss on the cheek in greeting. "Where's Al?"

Ginny sighed and reached out to cradle her husband's cheek with one hand. _So it begins. _"He's at Hogwarts, Harry."

Harry looked startled. "Why?"

"Because he's eleven." He was confused now. The expression on his face would have torn her heart, had it not been shredded so many years ago. "He'll be fine, Harry. Now go wash your hands for supper."

"Where's Lily?"

"Getting ready for supper. You saw her just a second ago, Harry."

He nodded slowly, as though realizing the truth of her words. "Yes. Yes, Al is at Hogwarts and Lily is getting ready for supper." He smiled suddenly, his fragility gone. "I'll just nip off and wash up. Frightful day at the office, but supper smells divine, Gin." He walked away, calling out to Arthur about a new car magazine he'd picked up today.

Ginny went back to the kitchen to help her mother take care of their family.

* * *

Standing at the front of the Great Hall, looking out over the crowd of black-clad students as the Deputy Headmaster made his ponderous way through the list of names, Albus wished there was some way he could sink through the floor. He wondered if James had gone through this the year before, then decided that he probably hadn't. James didn't look at all like their father, so likely no one would have made the connection until his last name was read out. But Albus had seen pictures, and except for his face being a bit rounder and his wrists being not quite so skinny (and the lack of infamous scar), he looked just as Harry had on his first day at Hogwarts, right down to his glasses.

Among the sea of faces he could pick out his relatives. Fabian's shock of white hair glowed as brightly as a ghost from his place at the Ravenclaw table; his sister Victoire's shimmering blond was as easily recognizable under Gryffindor's scarlet banners. And, at the far end of the Gryffindor table, paying absolutely no attention to the ceremony, sat James, his light copper hair glowing like a sun in the candlelight. The bastard had probably picked his place just for that purpose.

He found himself wishing that he had his mother's last name, so that he could be at the far end of the line with Rosie and Fred. Gabrielle was up near the front, the Malfoy boy hanging off her every word. Well, that was understandable, Albus allowed. Everyone loved Gabby, even though she talked as much as her nickname implied.

And here he was, all alone, stuck in the middle of the pack. Albus Severus Potter, named after two headmasters, son of the great Harry Potter himself, a boy with a world of expectations resting on his shoulders (after all, it wasn't like James was about to live up to his heritage).

Gabby was soon sent to join Fabian in Ravenclaw and, after what seemed a great amount of time spent under the hat, Scorpius was sent to Slytherin. Albus felt a small, satisfying twinge at that: now he wasn't the only one who was alone. The blond boy made his way slowly across to the green-decorated table. His greeting, Albus noticed, was decidedly lukewarm, and no surprise. Well, not to anyone but Scorpius himself, Albus suspected: he had the impression that the boy didn't know too much about his family's history here. He wondered why the boy hadn't gone to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang instead.

The Sorting continued until, at long last, his name was called. A distinct hush fell over the room when the Deputy Headmaster said "Potter, Albus." He wondered if the same thing had happened to his father. Gingerly, he sat on the stool, and the cap dropped over his eyes.

_Oh, _said a little voice in his ear. _It's you._

_Yes, _Albus thought back at it. _It is. Could you put my in Gryffindor, please?_ Dad had said your choices counted for something with the Hat, after all.

_Because that's where your father was, of course,_ the Hat said. _But this is a question of what's most suitable for _you.

_Gryffindor, _Albus assured it. Both his parents had been in Gryffindor. All four of his grandparents had too. Probably Fabian and Gabrielle were the first Weasleys in decades to be Sorted into any other House. He doubted there had ever been a Potter who wasn't a Gryffindor.

_Family history? You're descended from the Blacks on both sides, and they've had members in every House. _The Hat sounded like it was trying to be kind, but really it was just dragging things out, and Albus had a horrible, sinking feeling he wouldn't be in Gryffindor. Dad would be so disappointed. He was aware that his Sorting was taking a while, and that the students were growing restless, wondering what was making it take so long. _I've had a recommendation that you go to Hufflepuff, but I really think you have a better chance with..._

"Slytherin!"

Biting back a curse, Albus pulled the Hat from his head and handed it back to the Deputy Headmaster. The murmuring in the Hall was louder now, as students wondered how the son of the great Harry Potter had ended up in _that House. _Albus took one, wistful look at the Gryffindor table, and his brother caught his eye. James was glaring at him - no, not at him, but at the Hat. He wondered why: James ought to be ecstatic that they weren't in the same House. He shuffled down to the Slytherin table and took a seat next to Scorpius.

"Do you know," drawled the other boy, with an obvious disregard for self-preservation, "I think we two may be the least welcome people in this House."

"Yes," Albus sighed. "I think you're right about that."


	2. Chapter 1

_Thank you again to my betas, Kathy, Lynn, Alex and Jenn. And I have such an incredible hatred for the auto-formatting on this site... apologies if it breaks again and makes things hard to read._

* * *

**Chapter One**_  
In which there is snow and poor manners_  
Wednesday, November 29, 2017

An unusually cold autumn had left snow piled high in drifts all around Hogwarts. Fires burned constantly in all the common rooms, and students kept the heavy curtains pulled closed around their beds to keep out chill drafts while they slept. Friends in different Houses competed half-jokingly in games of 'Who Has it Worst'. Ravenclaws and Gryffindors tended to fight to a standstill, since both had their dorms in towers, although being at the northern end of the castle gave the Gryffindors a slight edge against all but Ravenclaw's greatest debaters - against whom they were doomed to lose anyway. There was no wind to whistle through the chinks in the stone walls for the dungeon-dwelling Slytherins, but the pervading damp added an extra layer to their misery. The Hufflepuffs, everyone agreed, could bloody well shut their whining holes, since even the weak sunlight was enough to keep their ground-floor dormitories, tucked in behind the greenhouses, warm and snug.

Scorpius pulled his charmed cloak closer around his shoulders. Light and well-cut, Mama's letter had promised it would nonetheless keep her darling warm. At times like this, he wondered if he ought to swallow his pride and use the heavy wool cloak his father had sent instead. Growing up in the South of France, Mama obviously had no idea how cold this barbaric country could be, although she sympathized a great deal.

_Be glad I didn't send you to Durmstrang, _had been all the sympathy his father's last missive had contained. Trust his Father to ignore his suffering in favour of pointing out how things could be worse. The man had a heart as cold and frozen as a Hogwarts winter. He had no idea why his sweet, delicate Mama had married an English brute in the first place. They simply didn't match at all.

"Buck up," Albus advised him quietly. "At least Bletchley is only sending you to Sprout. He could have given you detention somewhere outside."

That was Albus, always trying to look on the bright side - and generally failing miserably. It wasn't his fault, though: there was a general lack of bright sides to be found at Hogwarts.

"Sprout's summoning Father," Scorpius retorted. "I'd rather do menial labour outside, thank you all the same." He frowned suddenly, studying his friend. The black-haired boy had gone very pale all of a sudden. "Are you alright?"

"That means she's probably summoned Mum, too," Albus said, as though pronouncing his own imminent demise.

"So? It's not like you've been called to Sprout's office. Besides, shouldn't you be more worried that she might call your father?"

Albus's head shake was emphatic. "Dad's alright. He's pretty easy-going about this sort of thing anyway. But Mum'll find out I was there too, and she's going to _kill _me."

Scorpius gave him a weak smile. "At least she'll kill James first."

"Yeah," the other boy agreed with a slight smile. "That's something, at least."

* * *

He found them lurking around the corridors near the entrance to the Headmistress's office, trying to look nonchalant despite loitering in the most fantastically boring section of the school. There weren't even any interesting paintings for them to pretend to be interested in, just a bunch of grumpy old portraits of members of the Board. Esmeralda was getting a dressing-down from the portrait of a middle-aged man with unnaturally pale hair.

"And furthermore - and stand up straight when I'm addressing you, young lady - your ignorance of such matters appals me. Just because the administration has gone to pot is no excuse for a young witch to neglect her education."

She heard him coming and turned to him beseechingly. "Car," she pleaded. "He won't leave me alone. Do something."

A glance at the man - and his expression - was enough to convince Caradoc he couldn't do anything, and would be a fool to try. "Tough it out there, Esme. That's Lucius Malfoy." He didn't give much credit to the rumours about the man himself - according to his father, he wasn't such a bad sort, once you got past the deep-seated arrogance - but he'd had a couple of run-ins with the portrait himself, and there was no stopping the paint-and-canvas Malfoy.

"Show a little more respect," the portrait snapped, before turning his attention back to Esmeralda, obviously intending to continue his tirade against ignorance and poor manners. The sharp sound of expensive shoes on the flagstones caught his attention, though, and forestalled him. Interested, Caradoc followed the portrait's gaze to the man striding down the hallway in a billow of expensive business robes. His short-cropped hair was the same unnatural pale as Lucius Malfoy's, framing a face that was a younger version of those same strong features. His eyes, though, were tired and far older than those on the painted Lucius. "Aren't you going to greet your father, boy?" the portrait shouted when the man passed by without a word.

The man's voice, as firm and commanding as the rest of him, drifted back. "When he learns some manners." Then the man was gone, marching past the gargoyle that guarded the Headmistress's door and up into her office.

"Cor," he heard Griflet breathe behind him, the Ravenclaw boy having been drawn from his study of some of the older portraits. "That was Governor Malfoy." Unnoticed, the portrait of Lucius Malfoy began its tirade once again. "What did Jimmy do to have _him _come in?"

"So that's what's taking so long," Esme added thoughtfully. "Parents."

Griflet looked at her sharply. "You don't think Harry Potter's been called in too, do you?"

Caradoc started to reply, but the rapid click of someone striding down the hallway in heels interrupted him. A red-haired witch strode by as quickly as Governor Malfoy had, the hem of her robe hissing as the cloak's woven-in spells dried it. She wore the same focused, impatient look as the governor had.

"Just his mum," Esme said, sounding slightly disappointed.

"Healer Weasley is not _just _anything," Griflet snapped, watching the woman disappear behind the gargoyle. "She was _the _authority on almancy and blood magic after the War." Since Griflet - a walking encyclopaedia when it came to the War - said so, Caradoc didn't doubt it. Still, it seemed strange that Jimmy's mother would be someone so special, and no one knew anything about it. As far as Caradoc had been aware, she was just Mrs. Potter, who stood beside Harry Potter in photographs in the Prophet and looked kind and sweet, and who sent Jimmy boxes of homemade fudge. Not that it mattered, really. Whoever his parents were, Jimmy was still Jimmy, and that was why all three of them were loitering here in the hallway.

After a little while, Esmeralda said, "Do either of you know what happened?" It was no surprise that Griflet shook his head - Caradoc doubted the boy knew what day of the week it was. He probably only made it to class because his Housemates could drag him there without his noticing while he was absorbed in his research. There were only two things that pulled Griflet back into the real world: the War, and Jimmy - and Merlin only knew why for the second.

"The Malfoy boy attacked him," Caradoc offered up. He'd been walking past on his way to Muggle Studies, and seen the weedy blond runt throw himself at Jimmy, fists flailing, wand and dignity forgotten. He'd gotten a couple of good punches in before Jimmy hexed him. That hadn't been enough to stop the incensed first year who, likely driven by blind rage, had landed a few more hits and, by pure ill luck, broken Jimmy's wand. Caradoc wasn't sure if it had been magic or brute force that had thrown Malfoy into a wall after that. He did know that Jimmy had walked up to the crumpled boy, his face like stone and his eyes darkened to a terrifying blue-black, grabbed his nose and broken it with one savage twist of his wrist. He hadn't even seemed to notice the blood that covered his hand.

Caradoc had kept walking after that. Jimmy wouldn't have thanked him for getting involved and, more than likely, anyone in that hallway full of screaming first and second years would later be considered as 'involved'. He'd heard Towler and Catchlove come barrelling onto the scene, shouting for order, as he headed upstairs.

When he finished describing what he had seen, the other two were silent for a minute.

"What did Jimmy do to provoke him?" Esmeralda asked at last. Caradoc shrugged.

"Does it really matter?" At her sharp look, he sighed. "Jimmy's not an idiot, Esme. He'll get away with it." He always did.

* * *

As the two boys made their way out of the room, heads appropriately bowed in repentance, Pomona Sprout regarded the two adults seated across from her. Strange, that two such very different people could look so similar. Each had the same relaxed, unconsciously arrogant posture of a powerful spell-caster, the same crows-feet of exhaustion at the corners of their eyes, the same guarded expression that said they remembered previous visits to this room, when they had been the students in trouble.

How they had changed in the years since they were her students! Draco Malfoy had withdrawn into himself, shedding his boastful, conceited shell. His manners now spoke of a rigid self-discipline. Well, no surprise there: he had to know the trouble he would have if he set so much as a toe out of line, even after so many years. And Ginevra Weasley - Potter, now - was no longer so fierce and fiery, but that change, too, spoke of self-discipline. It couldn't have been easy, putting herself aside to care for Harry all these years.

"More tea?" she offered, to break the silence. They both started, as though she'd pulled them back from some distant place of personal thought. Such a strange pair, they were. Unlikely in their similarity, although it was unfortunately unsurprising that their offspring didn't get along.

Ginny smiled, her kindly-housewife mask slipping firmly back into place. "That would be lovely, thank you, Pomona." She held out her cup, and the teapot obligingly refilled her cup. After a second's hesitation, Draco Malfoy held his out as well, without a word. "I gather this isn't the first incident," she said conversationally, accepting a biscuit from the hovering plate.

Pomona watched the plate make its way to Malfoy, who waved it away and took a sip of his tea, grimacing a bit when it was hotter than he'd expected.

"It's hard to say," she said at last. "There is a continual sense that there is trouble between the two - young Albus is often involved as well - but never anything that would make this less..." She waved a hand, trying to give some indication of what she meant.

"No ridiculous school-yard brawls like mine and Potter's, you mean," Malfoy drawled, and oh, but he still had the aristocratic drawl down pat, far better than even Lucius ever had. But he was insightful in ways his father hadn't been, she would give him that.

"They've never even lost points for fighting." She hesitated, then added before she could lose her nerve, "You don't seem surprised, Ginevra."

Pomona would have given a sack of galleons to know what the woman's twisted smile meant. "If there's a disagreement over anything, I expect to find Jimmy and Albus on opposite sides," she said simply.

Malfoy looked over at her and raised one aristocratic eyebrow. "You're suggesting that Scorpius and _Albus Potter_ are on the same side?" He glanced at Pomona. "Is that right?"

"They're in the same House," she acknowledged. "And they do seem to be friends."

Malfoy laughed softly. "Imagine that. My son, friends with a Potter."

"And several Weasleys, I would imagine," Ginevra added, indifferent. "Albus wouldn't want to be separated from Rosie and Gabby." Both women watched Malfoy closely to see how he took the news. For herself, Pomona was unaccountably disappointed: the man shrugged slightly, as though to say 'what will be, will be,' and took another sip of his tea.

"They'll both have to be punished appropriately, of course." She paused, not really expecting either of these level-headed people to raise any objection. "And James will need a new wand."

Malfoy shrugged. "Whatever you decide is fine, Pomona," Ginevra said. "I'll take Jimmy into London on Saturday, if that's fine with you."

Really, Pomona did so like working with such rational, understanding parents. But what a surprise that, of all her old students that she saw these days, these two would be the easiest to deal with. She never would have imagined it, back when they were children. She glanced out her office window at the dark sky, punctuated by flying snow that glowed in the light from the castle's windows.

"Won't you both stay for supper? It's getting late, and there's quite a snowstorm outside."

"I'm not sure I can, Pomona," Ginevra said, visibly torn between her responsibilities and her desire to stay. "It's supposed to get worse, and if I don't leave soon..."

Suddenly decisive, Pomona dismissed the woman's worries with a wave of her hand. Just looking at the poor girl, a body could tell she needed a rest. She worked herself too hard, taking care of that family of hers, and anyone with eyes could see it was running her haggard. A break would do her a world of good.

"Bosh," she said firmly. "Let them take care of themselves, for once. You need some time off."

"Well..." Still Ginevra hesitated, although she was smiling slightly. Pomona took it as a good sign, and decided to see if she could push her luck a little.

"I've half a mind to owl your mother and invite her, too. Merlin knows when she last had some time to herself, either. You're staying for dinner, and then you'll let us give you one of the guest chambers for the night."

Ginevra laughed, a genuine, easy smile appearing on her face. It had been too long since Pomona had seen her with an expression like that. "When you put it like that, Pomona, how can I refuse? Be careful, though: I might like it too much to leave."

"You're always welcome on our staff, Healer Weasley," Pomona said honestly, then turned to her other guest. "Well, Governor Malfoy? I'm afraid we took the liberty of converting the Board Suite into teachers' quarters, but..." Malfoy waved a careless hand, a slight smile lighting his eyes.

"The Suite was a waste of space, anyway. I'd be more than happy to accept your invitation, Professor Sprout."

She smiled in return. "Pomona, please." He wasn't an old ally, as Ginevra was, but looking at the man he'd become, Pomona couldn't hold it against him. He'd had a rough start, but now she felt proud that she'd once been his teacher. If only she could be sure some of her current students would grow up half so well.

* * *

James lay in his bed, staring at the thick red canopy. He'd pulled the curtains closed and the heavy, spell-woven drapes blocked the sounds of his roommates talking. It seemed no one had been able to find anything to talk about this afternoon but his fight with Malfoy. There were plenty of students, whose parents had gone to school with Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, who were talking in knowledgeable tones about the long-standing Potter-Malfoy rivalry, as though such a thing existed. If anyone had had a rivalry with the Malfoys it had been Uncle Ron, and that had probably been one-sided.

Still, some good had come of the fracas today. He hadn't meant to have his wand snapped, but as soon as the Malfoy brat had attacked him, he'd been determined to escalate things to the point where his mother would be called. Letters were all very well, but he missed her, and he'd been worried lately. Her missives had been getting shorter and terser, and he just knew his father wasn't taking Albus's absence well, although by now Harry Potter must be resigned to his favourite son being in Slytherin. James didn't mean to add to his mother's worries, but he'd hoped a visit to Hogwarts would give her some breathing space from the troubles at home.

It had occurred to him, briefly, that the school might try calling his father, and that had been a cause for some concern. Professor Towler wasn't a bad man, nor a bad teacher, but there were many things outside of his understanding, and Harry Potter was one of them. Thank Merlin the case had been handed over to Professor Sprout, who would at least know enough to avoid an _incident_.

The bed curtains were pulled roughly aside, and James found himself looking up into the severe face of Everest Macmillan, the sixth year prefect. All the other prefects would leave him alone - he'd been dealt with by teachers, his Head of House, and the Headmistress, after all - but Macmillan never seemed content to let things be.

"Do you have any idea how many points you've cost us, Potter?" he demanded, as though points were the only thing in the world that mattered. Well, maybe for Macmillan they were. "Two hundred points from Gryffindor, just because you couldn't control your temper."

James stared blandly back at the older boy. "So?"

Two hundred points was a small price to pay for the chance to beat the shit out of the whiny little creeper, and to check up on his mother. To her son's watchful eye, Ginny had grown visibly more relaxed every minute she sat in Sprout's office, even though they were discussing her son's misdemeanour.

"Do you know how hard I - how hard _we _- worked for those points? You can't earn back two hundred just by answering a couple of questions in class, Potter. If you think..." Macmillan seemed to be working himself up to a right proper rant.

James gave a pointed yawn. "Then I'll get them back by getting top in the exams and winning the Quidditch Cup." It was just the sort of expansive, boastful statement that would shut Macmillan up, if only for a minute. The prefect's mouth snapped shut, and he glared at James. He looked about to deride the claim, but James cut him off.

"You think I can't, Macmillan?" The words were quiet, but knife-edged. Macmillan had been raised on tales of Harry Potter's greatness - some of that would leech down to stain his son, too.

"You better make good, Potter," he snapped, then jerked the curtains closed and stalked off.

James sighed to himself. _That's right, Macmillan. Remember the great Harry Potter. _No one who knew James - or knew Harry, for that matter - would have accepted the words on such a basis. Harry had been a mediocre student at best: according to Aunt Hermione, he and Uncle Ron had only passed History of Magic and Charms by copying off her, and James believed it. His father and Uncle Ron were pretty good at field work - their success as Auror's was a testament to that - but they were bollocks at theory. No, James was quite aware that his brains came from his mum who, despite being a stay-home mother and homemaker, was a brilliant witch. She'd taught James to fly, too: she'd played both Chaser and Seeker during her time at Hogwarts, and of all his relatives who played in their family scrimmage games, only Uncle Charlie could match her on a broom. He wondered if even his father knew what a great witch Ginny was. Probably not.

"Jimmy?" Fred stuck his head through the curtains. "We're headed down to dinner now. You coming?"

With an groan - skinny little runt though he was, Malfoy's fists had left bruises - James sat up and pulled the curtains all the way back.

"Sure, Freddie. How was Herbology today, by the way?"

* * *

Draco vaguely remembered Bletchley from his own days at Hogwarts. What had been a mediocre, unmemorable boy had grown into an average, unremarkable man. The only reason Draco remembered him at all was his position as Slytherin's Keeper, although he had been average at that, too. Much better than the Weasel King on a bad day, nowhere close to the red-haired menace on a good one. It said rather a lot about the quality of Hogwart's current staff, to Draco's mind, that a man like that could be only a couple of years older than Draco himself and already the Deputy Head and Head of Slytherin.

Worse, the man was the Potions teacher (one needed to have a mastery of the subject to be called a Potions Master, to Draco's way of thinking). This, the same Miles Bletchley who, in his third year, had caused the potions classroom to be closed for a week after his cauldron exploded, so that the rock-hard yellow _stuff _could be chipped off every surface in the room. Snape had been livid, as Draco recalled.

He was leaning forward to talk to Ginny Weasley, with complete disregard to Pomona, who sat between them, and to his sleeve trailing through his gravy-smothered potatoes. Over the man's head, he offered Pomona a smile of sympathy, which she accepted with a slightly wistful one of her own. Obviously, she was used to such behaviour, but that just made Bletchley's lack of manners worse. _This _was meant to be a role model for his son?

_Well, _Draco admitted to himself, _it's not like Scorpius needs a lesson in manners_. If anything, the boy's manners were already too pretty. Proper decorum was exceedingly important, but the frilly mannerisms the boy's mother had instilled showed a weakness that was entirely inappropriate in the heir to Malfoy Enterprises - which the boy remained, despite having no more common-sense than a rock. If he was still a hopeless case after a few years at Hogwarts, Draco would capitulate and let him go to Beauxbatons like he wanted.

The company on his other side was only a little better. Kenneth Towler had been two years ahead of Draco at Hogwarts, though he had known the boy by reputation alone. A reputation, incidentally, which consisted solely of being on the receiving end of the pranks of his roommates, the Weasley doppelgangers. Not a great recommendation for the teacher of one of Hogwarts's more dangerous subjects, nor for the Head of the House which, judging by the number of redheads at the table, had three more Weasleys in it. Considering the rumours of what had been done to him as a student, Draco wouldn't have been surprised if the man shat himself every time he saw a flash of red hair.

Chewing thoughtfully on his dinner roll, Draco scanned the table for other familiar faces. There was Greta Catchlove, the Charms teacher and presumably Head of Ravenclaw. Based on her publishing history, her specialty was in household charms, but it _was_, at least, a specialty. At the far end of the table, past Pomona and Ginny, he recognized the fierce visage of Gwenog Jones, once captain of the Holyhead Harpies but now forced into retirement by age and too many Bludgers to the head. He hoped she taught flying: most ex-pro Quidditch players were too addled to be qualified for much more.

That was it... no: he'd seen the man sitting on Ginny's far side before. He'd lost weight - or, more accurately, plumpness - and gained a layer of self-confidence that would have been entirely out of place in his character as Draco had first known him. There were few men in the world that the War had been kind to, but Neville Longbottom was one of them. His part in the victory over the Dark Lord had given him confidence that, combined with his undeniable talent in Herbology, had catapulted him to the forefront of his field. So there was one man, at least, who was qualified to be a Hogwarts teacher, and a Head of House. That it was Longbottom, and the House was Hufflepuff, well... there were some things that didn't bear thinking of.

At least they'd always have Binns, even if he'd stopped updating his curriculum half a century ago and his teaching was still as dry as bone.

"What have you been up to, Malfoy?" Towler asked conversationally, helping himself to some more asparagus. "I gather from your son that you've been in France?"

At least he wasn't being openly suspicious, Draco consoled himself. "Some. My parents retired there, and that's where my wife is from. Mostly, I've been working."

"Malfoy Enterprises, right?" Towler seemed quite pleased with himself for remembering. "You've been doing well for yourself."

"Things are looking up," Draco admitted. "Most of the business has been neglected since, well, forever, really."

Towler grunted. "Impressive turn-around, then."

"I hope so."

The other man looked at him sharply. "You've changed, Malfoy. What happened to the arrogant little prick you used to be?" _And right there, _Draco thought acerbically, _is the vaunted 'Gryffindor tact'. Getting kicked by a hippogriff would be more subtle._ Sadly, it wasn't a question he was unprepared for: he'd answered it more times than he cared to recall in the last three months.

"He got tiresome," he answered dryly. He never offered more information, and no one ever asked. Anyone with half a brain could figure out it hadn't been easy being a Malfoy - especially not Draco Malfoy - in the twenty years since Dumbledore's death. That Dumbledore could have avoided his fate - at the cost of both Draco and Severus Snape, yes, but avoided it all the same - was a fact most chose to overlook, and instead slapped the blame squarely on Draco's shoulders. It didn't help that that was exactly where most of it belonged. All in all, it was easiest not to dwell on it.

"Oh." Even a dense twat like Towler could see that wasn't a good avenue of conversation to pursue. "So," he said instead, "how's the weather in France these days?"

* * *

Albus watched the two additions to the Head Table throughout the meal. His mother's continued presence at Hogwarts made him puzzled, and not a little nervous. There was no reason that he could see for a quiet, anonymous home-maker like Ginny Potter to be sitting among the teachers of Hogwarts, and no possible explanation for her apparent comfort in doing so. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought she was friends with Professors Longbottom and Sprout, from the way the three were talking.

The blond man a few places along could only be Scorpius's father. _This is the man Scorpius calls 'provincial' and 'unrefined'? _he wondered. As the son of Harry Potter, he'd visited the Ministry of Magic frequently as a child, and met many of Britain's most influential wizards; this man could have matched any of them for confidence and strength of presence. His robes were elegant but dapper, much like the ones Harry Potter wore on important court days and to public appearances. A conservative figure, but not boorish by any means. It made him wonder what Scorpius must think of him, with his plain school robes and muggle jeans.

"That's your mother?" Scorpius asked, his carefully neutral tone putting Albus on his guard. Ginny Potter was plain and unassuming, even to Albus's eyes; how must she appear to someone like Scorpius?

"Well, yes," he mumbled, embarrassed - as much for her as for himself. If only she had at least thought to put on a decent set of robes before coming to the school. He knew she had them, although they hardly did more for her than her work ones. It wasn't her fault she was plain.

Scorpius made a thoughtful sound. "She could be very pretty, I think. I wonder why she hides it?" A couple of places down from them, on the opposite side of the table, Esmeralda Crabbe choked back what could have been a laugh. "You have something to say?"

Esmeralda pointed a piece of asparagus at him like a wand. "She _is _very pretty, Puce. She obviously just can't be bothered spending hours working on her appearance. She probably works for a living, unlike _some women_."

Before Scorpius could leap to the defence of his dear Mama - as he looked about to - Albus cut in. "She doesn't work. She's a home-maker," he said.

"So she works like a house elf, taking care of her ungrateful spawn," Esmeralda snapped, biting the head off her asparagus in a very pointed way. Esmeralda's mother, Albus had heard, was one of those Society ladies who involved herself in Causes; Esmeralda looked to be following in her footsteps. No doubt there was some Cause concerned with the exploitation of stay-home mothers or the under-appreciation of witches in general, and there were Society ladies organizing soirees to raise awareness.

"She's just a normal mother," Albus retorted.

"Exactly my point," Esmeralda returned, then looked away pointedly as though she could no longer stand the sight of them. Albus's snort earned him a half-eaten piece of asparagus smacking him wetly in the forehead.

The way Scorpius delicately passed him a napkin spoke volumes. "She's right about your mother being pretty, at least," the French boy said quietly. "I suppose I am just not used to seeing such fierce women."

"My mother's not fierce," Albus objected, wiping his forehead and grimacing at the buttery smear that came away on the napkin.

"Perhaps you should get your glasses checked, _mon ami_," was all Scorpius said.

* * *

He'd had a growing suspicion, these last three months, that Malfoy had changed greatly over the years. The Ferret, as Neville had once known him, was exactly the sort of person young Scorpius would have admired. Though Scorpius spoke frequently and highly of his mother, he had far less regard for his father. So Neville's suspicions had grown.

Seeing Malfoy again this evening had all but confirmed them. Malfoy was courteous and unfailingly polite, even to Towler, whom even Neville regarded as a hopeless prick. Somehow, Malfoy had managed to have a civil conversation with the man, and likely with no help from Towler himself.

"Ginny, would you mind if I invited Malfoy along with us to the Three Broomsticks?" he asked quietly. "I mean, he seems to have changed, and..." He floundered. By rights he, Neville Longbottom, should have an unending list of reasons not to want to go to a pub with Draco Malfoy, but just now most of them seemed childish and petty. He wasn't even sure why, exactly, he'd felt the sudden compulsion to invite the man along; it just seemed like the right thing to do. But if Ginny objected, he wouldn't force the issue: just because he seemed able to magically forgive old grudges was no reason for her to.

She hesitated visibly, then smiled. To Neville's eye, experienced at reading all the varied emotions in his students' faces, she seemed a bit nervous, but her smile was genuine, as was her agreement. "Not at all."

Giving her his best reassuring grin, Neville went to speak to Malfoy. Perhaps Ginny could finally have a bit of well-deserved fun and relaxation tonight, and Malfoy would realize that not the entire world was out to get him. Who knew, maybe with a bit of luck Neville would discover what had turned their respective offspring into such a pack of monsters.

* * *

Clucking soothingly, Molly laid out a towel for the poor, bedraggled bird that had just arrived. The cold, freezing rain falling around Ottery St Catchpole could not have been pleasant for it to fly through, and there had been reports on the Wizarding Wireless of a snowstorm around Hogsmeade. In a sense, it was no surprise to be receiving one of the school owls, not when Ginny was already so late returning from her meeting with Pomona Sprout, but it still wasn't the most welcome of developments.

Oh, heavens knew Ginny deserved a break now and again, for all she so rarely got one. Hermione being the career-witch that she was, Ginny had played a large role in raising Hugo and Rosie. And Ron had his hands full with work, supporting Harry and making sure there wasn't anything that might cause an _incident _in the Auror's Office. Especially now that Harry was head of the department. It was more than a full-time job, what Ginny did, raising the children, helping around the house, taking care of Harry and supporting poor George. Molly and Arthur helped where they could, but Arthur had his work at the Ministry and, well, they weren't as young as they had once had been; the burden was falling more and more heavily on Ginny these days. She deserved a rest. Though, that didn't mean her absence would be any easier to bear.

Molly slipped the owl another treat, showed it the small owlery where the other birds lived, then squared her shoulders and prepared to break the news that Ginny would not be coming home tonight. She hoped Ginny had a restful night at Hogwarts: it didn't look like anyone here was likely to have one.

* * *

**References****:**

Title: Tangled Webs: "Oh what a tangled web we weave/When first we practice to deceive!" Sir Walter Scott, _Marmion (VI.17)_  
- Almancy: this is _not _a word. I made it up. It will be explained later.  
- Griflet: Sir Griflet, Gerald Morris's 'Squires Tale' series - but I'm pretty sure he poached the character from somewhere else  
- Caradoc: Hero of Welsh legend, sometimes given as one of Arthur's knights.  
- Esmeralda: Hunchback of Notre Dame (Disney version).


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**_  
In which there are reprecussions_  
Thursday, November 27, 2014

It was one o'clock in the morning and Draco was, regrettably, still a long way from being drunk. Merlin knew, he'd been trying, and Rosmerta's staff had been doing everything they could to help. The drinks were cheap - he and Ginny had apparently been granted the Hogwarts staff discount - and the liquor strong, but still he couldn't get past the warmth of 'slightly buzzed' and into the welcome territory of 'utterly smashed'. _What happened to me?_ he wondered. He'd been quite the lightweight when he was still in school, though he wouldn't have admitted it even under torture.

"You remember the passwords for the tunnel?" Longbottom asked anxiously, hitching Bletchley's arm a little more securely around his shoulders. The Potions teacher hiccupped, and slumped a little more, pulling Longbottom off-balance again.

Draco gave him a reassuring smile - strange, that it felt so natural to smile at Longbottom, after these few short hours - and waved him away. "We'll be fine. You have to be up for classes tomorrow."

"So does this sot," Longbottom agreed with a long-suffering sigh. He gave them a wave that was hastily cut off when he needed to grab Bletchley to stop the man from falling over completely, and left, disappearing into the kitchen, where the entrance to the tunnel that would take him to the Staff Common Room was hidden. Draco watched him leave, then turned to his remaining drinking companion.

"Not tired yet?" he teased gently.

Ginny snorted. "I'm not a lightweight like Bletchley, if that's what you're asking." She rolled her eyes in a way that said a lot about what she thought of the Potions teacher. "But I suppose that's obvious." She never had been, as Draco recalled. Growing up with six older brothers had apparently given Ginny Weasley more than just a vicious temper and talent on the Quidditch pitch: she had an iron stomach and a hollow leg that were a match for any man he'd met. "I just can't figure out which of us he was trying to impress."

Considering the man's behaviour at dinner, Draco would have thought that obvious, but he didn't say so. That sort of comment could only lead to a conversation he genuinely wished to avoid. He watched her down her drink with an ease that most people couldn't achieve when drinking water, much as he himself had a minute ago. "Don't tell me you're trying to get drunk." How long had it been since his grin had come so easily? Perhaps the alcohol was having some effect after all.

"No more than you are," she retorted. _Point to Weasley_, he conceded privately. Well, she'd always been observant: it was what had made her such a talented Healer. "Incidentally, that was a nice glamour you were wearing at the train station back in September. Any particular reason?"

"You noticed that, did you?" She just raised an eyebrow in reply, to which he shrugged. "Who doesn't feel sorry for the poor bastard who's going bald?"

"You were trying for sympathy points? You?"

"I was trying," he drawled, "for a lack of outright hostility. Behold my success." He raised his newly-refilled glass to her, the smoothly drained it. She mirrored the motion, her eyes - crinkled in silent laughter - holding his. "On an unrelated note," he added, moving his hand out of the way so the bartender could refill his glass, "what did you think of the new DADA teacher?"

Ginny sneered. The expression was actually quite attractive, in a way. At the very least, it gave more life to a face that he had grown used to seeing so still. She looked like a pale shadow of herself in those photos the Prophet was always publishing of the famous Potter family. "That quivering pile of pudding? Terrified of his own shadow, and twice as paranoid as old Mad-Eye."

"But unlikely to Transfigure students as punishment," Draco said dryly. "Not that it wouldn't do my son a world of good."

Ginny giggled. "I'm sorry, I was thinking the same thing. He doesn't take after you much, does he?"

"That's his mother's influence. She's always made such a pet of him." He sighed. "You wouldn't believe the trouble I had when I decided to send him to Hogwarts."

That brought a mischievous light to her eyes, as he'd known it would. "Try me."

"Oh, suicide threats, broken vases," he waved a dismissive hand, which the bartender mistakenly took as a signal that they didn't need any more drinks. Draco's frown, and pointed glance at his empty glass had the man scurrying with a refill. "She threatened to hex my hair out, even," he added, knowing that would get a laugh. He wasn't disappointed, and he found himself grinning. It was almost as if no time had passed: he found himself remembering exactly what would make her laugh, make her smile, what was going a bit too far and would prompt a playful smack on the head.

"Not the most imaginative," Ginny admitted. "But it played to your vanity, at least."

"After one has spent two days with bats coming out one's nose, one has very little vanity left," he returned. "And learns the true terror of originality."

If he wasn't mistaken, that was a blush gracing her delicately freckled cheeks. "That was ages ago," she muttered into her glass, looking a bit embarrassed. "I've learned some restraint."

"If you hadn't, I'd probably be sneezing elephants now."

* * *

Harry's voice had finally given out an hour ago, but he still had the energy to throw things. Ducking a flying ottoman, Ron performed a charm that let it bounce harmlessly off the wall. The house had been in a near-constant state of repair before Hermione had found that one.

"Harry, calm down, mate. She'll be back tomorrow." His best friend's soundless shriek wasn't the answer Ron had been hoping for. He misjudged the trajectory of a throw pillow and got hit full in the face. At least it was only a pillow, this time. "She's safe. So is Albus," he added, throwing the boy's name in for good measure. It always seemed to help, at least a little.

The other man sank to his knees, tears pouring unabashedly down his cheeks. Ron approached cautiously then, satisfied Harry wasn't about to start hitting him, gathered his friend into a tight hug. "Everything's fine, mate, I promise. Everyone's safe." _Dammit, Ginny_, he thought, _why didn't you come home? Harry needs you_. Deep inside himself, Ron was afraid that was the reason that, someday, she might not come home ever again.

* * *

Three in the morning and they were, at last, back at Hogwarts; still not drunk, but much closer than Draco had been in quite a few years. It felt good: not just the alcohol-induced looseness, but finally being in company where he could let himself relax fully. Far too many years had passed since the last time he had felt this way, and he suspected Ginny felt the same.

"How you doing?" he asked her, only mostly suppressing the urge to snicker as they loudly tip-toed past the entrance to the Hufflepuff dormitories on their way to the discrete wing that housed the guest rooms. He wondered, absently, how often the teachers has snuck back drunk when he was a student. Not that often, he suspected - they had been a respectable crowd, and there had been no secret tunnel to the bar for them to take advantage of. They would have had to walk through the snow, just like all the seventh years who snuck out.

Ginny made a non-committal, but generally pleased-sounding humming noise, and gave his waist a squeeze. At some point on the walk back they'd slipped their arms around each other - purely for support purposes in getting back to where they needed to be - just as they had so many times in the distant past. "Bit tired," she admitted.

They reached the small tapestry that marked the door to Ginny's room. "Dimblebum," Draco muttered. As though that was a respectable password. A section of stone wall moved aside obligingly, admitting them to the warm, comfortable room with its blue and white furnishings. There was a bit of fumbling as cloaks were removed and passed to a solicitous coat rack, and shoes toed off, while they still tried to use each other for support. "Keep swaying like that and I'll fall over," Draco warned her severely.

She had the audacity to giggle. "That'd be a sight. Draco Malfoy, flat on his arse. You sure you aren't drunk?" She poked him in the ribs, and he sneered back at her.

"Not a bit of it," he said, without any real venom. That just made her giggle harder. "What am I going to do with you?" He gave an exaggerated sigh, then scooped her up, carrying her bride-style only to dump her unceremoniously on the bed. "See? Perfectly steady on my feet, thank you." But he let her pull him down onto the bed next to her. Knowing he shouldn't, but unable to deny himself, he flipped onto his back and propped his head up on her stomach. "You still haven't told me which circle of hell you robbed to get those delightful sons of yours," he said conversationally. Sweet Circe, but her fingers felt good in his hair. He'd missed her and now, with at least a dozen drinks in his system, he could finally admit it to himself.

For a minute, it seemed like she wasn't going to answer. "Albus isn't my son," she said at last. Her hands moved restlessly, twisting strands of his hair around her fingers then smoothing it flat with her palms. It was soothing, but as relaxed as he was he couldn't allow himself to fall asleep here.

"He is Harry's though, isn't he? Don't bother answering," he added. He didn't need her answer: it had been obvious from the moment he'd spotted the boy seated next to Scorpius at dinner. The brat was like a carbon copy of the original speccy git, without any of that tiresome moral certainty that had been the only saving grace of the bastard's personality. All that was left was an untidy runt who blindly worshiped his father and lived according to his word. Having once been the poster child for that exact personality trait, Draco was well aware of how annoying it was to deal with. "Does he know?"

"It's simpler that he doesn't." Her hand moved from his hair to his jaw, tracing the line from his chin to the hollow below his ear. "Your face has gotten thinner," she murmured. He decided to ignore that comment, although he'd respect her desire to take the conversation away from what sounded like yet another painful secret of the Potter family. Talking about her children would at least help him remember that she wasn't available - and neither was he.

"As for your boy James..."

"Jimmy," she interjected. "'James' is just to appease Harry. And I reckon I found him in the eighth circle."

There was a lot of that these day, Draco thought - both the appeasement and the naming children after those who had died in the War, as though their parents were unwilling to let go of those they had lost and instead thrust their images onto their children - but he let it pass. "Jimmy... I wonder why he wasn't Sorted into Slytherin."

"Harry would have killed him." Somehow, it didn't sound like an exaggeration.

"Mr. Let's-All-Get-Along Potter? The Boy Who Lived for Inter-House Cooperation?"

"He's Harry. You know what he's like." Once, she would have sounded sad when she said that. Now she just sounded tired.

On impulse, Draco grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "Still, huh?"

"Yeah. At least he's still dense, too. He never questioned how Jimmy ended up in Gryffindor." As a joke, it didn't rate much, but Draco was willing to go with it, if only to avoid hearing that horrible emptiness in her voice again.

"Are you suggesting your son threatened the Hat?" Actually, he found the thought oddly pleasant: it showed the sort of attitude he could appreciate. A pity his own son was such a useless pansy.

"Only if bribery didn't work," Ginny said. Her voice was warmer now: she was smiling again.

He nodded his approval; the resultant static made his hair stand up in a nimbus around his head. "I like a man who understands the fine art of extortion. Wouldn't have thought it would work on the Hat, though." The Sorting Hat was immutable, after all.

"Jimmy has his ways," she answered dryly. He wondered what the story there was, but was too tired to pursue it. He'd ask her another day: now that he was back in England, he didn't think he could bear to lose touch again.

For now, though, he needed some sleep. "I should get to bed," he said, sitting up. He tried to pull his hand away, but she held on.

"Draco," she murmured, her grip on his hand surprisingly firm. "I still hate you, you know."

He smiled softly at her, and touched her cheek gently. "I know."

* * *

Scorpius woke feeling tired and cross. Some residue of the spell that had mended his broken nose had disturbed his sleep, so he had tossed and turned fitfully until exhaustion had claimed him in the small hours of the morning. His dreams had been filled with James Potter's mocking laughter, although the older boy had betrayed no such expression the day before. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that the elder Potter looked down on him.

A glance at the clock told him it was just past six - too early for him to want to be up, but there wasn't much point in trying to go back to sleep. For once he would be one of the first into the Great Hall for breakfast. With luck he could eat and come back to the Common Room without seeing his father, who had surely taken advantage of his position on the Board to enjoy Hogwarts's hospitality.

* * *

Hermione shook Ron awake. He'd fallen asleep on top of the covers, and hadn't even bothered to take off his slippers. He grumbled, his hand blindly questing for a pillow or fold of blanket to hide under, as though that would make the morning go away until he was ready for it.

"How late were you up until?" she asked, noting the dark shadows under his red-shot eyes. Ron worked so hard during the day; it was too much to expect him to take care of Harry at night, too. Hopefully Ginny would be home soon, or they'd have to find a way to take care of Harry this morning as well. There was no chance that their friend would be able to work in his current state.

Ron yawned widely and rolled over, misjudging the edge of the bed and falling off, his hip hitting the floor with a thump. "Three-ish?" he offered, rubbing his side as he stood up. "Not one of his better nights."

"I'm sorry I couldn't stay up to help you," Hermione said, giving him his good-morning kiss as though it were an apology.

"S'alright." Ron staggered into the bathroom. "You've got an important case this morning."

"You've got a busy day ahead too," Hermione protested. She appreciated him letting her sleep, but she wished his sacrifice hadn't been necessary. Why Ginny had felt the need to go haring off without warning or consideration was beyond her. It just wasn't like the other woman.

Ron shrugged. "I'll deal," he said, putting shaving cream on his toothbrush.

* * *

Griflet Rosier stared at the clock on the mantle above the Common Room fireplace. 6:30. Did that mean it was time for breakfast, or supper? Either way, there was likely to be food down in the Great Hall, and now that he thought of it, he was feeling rather hungry. He tried to remember when he'd last eaten, but either it had been quite a while ago or he hadn't been paying attention.

A boy with windblown white hair strolled into the Common Room, a broom over his shoulder. He knew the boy by sight, though not by name: they had quite a few classes together, after all. "Is it breakfast time?" he asked. No sense asking if it was morning or night - the other boy would think he was crazy.

"Yeah. They just started serving in the Great Hall. Looks like porridge today, though."

"Ah," Griflet said mildly. Most people didn't like the porridge because it was bland, even with sugar and cinnamon, but Griflet liked it because it kept him full for a long time so he didn't have to worry about remembering meal times.

The other boy was grinning for some reason. "Go change your robes before you head down, Rosier. You forgot yesterday, and you're all over ink."

Griflet looked down and saw that, indeed, he looked like he'd spilled ink on himself at some point. Probably it had been a while ago, since his robes were dry. He was surprised the other boy had noticed, though: black ink didn't really show up on black robes, did it? "Yes," he murmured, and headed upstairs to the dormitory. The Now was really such an inconvenience, at times: everything had to be done soon, if not immediately. The Past was quite a bit more patient.

* * *

_"Should get to bed" indeed_, Ginny thought to herself with a small smirk. So the blond had said last night - earlier this morning, rather - and yet here he was, fast asleep in the overstuffed armchair in front of her fireplace. His hair was sticking up wildly in a way he would never tolerate if he was awake. With his eyes closed, he looked younger than his years, as though unconsciously using this time to reclaim a little of the youth that life had stolen from him. Which of them looked less like their true age when they were awake? Ginny hoped it was him: otherwise, she must look fifty.

She resisted the urge to smooth his hair down, and walked quickly to the bathroom and shut the door. In here, perhaps, Temptation wouldn't be able to dangle him in front of her and entice her with sweet promises. The only person she would see in the bathroom was herself, looking careworn past her years. _I made my choice_, she reminded herself firmly. And not even magic could truly turn back time, though she doubted she would have chosen differently even if she had known. _Known everything?_ a small part of her mind asked. She'd walked into her sacrifices with her eyes open, but it was the knives in the back she hadn't seen coming.

A few well-practiced spells charmed the bruises from beneath her eyes and tidied her hair. She'd wait until she got home to have a proper shower, but not much longer. Another few charms cleaned her clothes and smoothed them out. She'd never got the hang of the fashion charms that would let her Transfigure her outfits, but there had hardly been a morning in the last thirteen years when she didn't wake up in her own bed at home. Besides, someone who had been unexpectedly trapped by a snowstorm could be forgiven for wearing the same clothes two days in a row.

Draco was still asleep when she returned to the main room. He was a heavy sleeper, unless you tried to sneak around: then he would be awake and throwing jinxes in a heartbeat - a memento of old times, probably. With the ease of someone used to taking care of people, she tucked a blanket around him and left him to sleep. He probably had meetings and business to attend to, but a man who worked as hard as him ought to be allowed a break now and again. She grabbed her cloak and headed for the Staff Common Room so she could take the tunnel to Hogsmeade and floo home.

Pomona was sitting in the Common Room, wrapped in a pink terrycloth bathrobe with rabbits on it. She had a cup of tea in one hand, a quill in the other, and was regarding the documents on the coffee table in front of her with the severe look she used for troublesome plants and clumsy students. "Good morning, Ginevra," she said brightly when Ginny came in. "Neville didn't keep you out too late last night, did he?"

"No," Ginny assured her. "I had a nice time." Not wanting to think too much about why that had been, she asked, "How's Professor Bletchley?"

Pomona chuckled. "Green to the gills, silly boy. He has an early class, too."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ginny said, helping herself to a croissant off the sideboard.

"Don't be. It's his own foolish fault - it's not the first time he's done it, either. Well, he'll learn or he won't." She looked about to say something more, but closed her mouth instead, studying the dark liquid in her mug intently. Seeming to come to a sudden resolution, she put set the cup aside and looked Ginny directly in the eye. "I know it's not my place, Ginevra, but if ever you feel the need, you're welcome here any time."

Ginny nodded mutely. Hogwarts was always ready to help an old student, and Pomona in particular believed they should look after their own. No doubt she'd even hire Ginny on, if she asked. But that would mean leaving Harry and - by extension - her entire family, and Ginny wasn't sure she'd survive that. Her family had been her life for so long, and they had meant the world to her even before she decided to stay home for them. "Thank you, Pomona," she said, meaning it, although she knew she would never take the kindly witch up on her offer. "I'd best be going. They'll be needing me."

"Have a good day, Ginevra. I'll see you Saturday." She waved as Ginny ducked through the trapdoor into the tunnel.

The tunnel was warm and dry despite the snow outside. The dirt floor was packed and even, so there was no danger of tripping even with only the thin light from her wand to illuminate her way. Realistically, Ginny knew, with a tunnel like this there had been nothing to prevent her from getting outside Hogwarts's wards to floo or Apparate home last night, except her acceptance of Pomona's invitation to stay. But, despite her obligations and the inescapable truth that her family needed her, it hadn't once occurred to her to leave. Last night, just for a few hours, she had been Ginny Weasley again, and not even for her family could she have given that up.

Rosmerta herself was in the Three Broomsticks when Ginny arrived, supervising the cooks with a look in her eye that reminded Ginny of Molly Weasley. She might be getting too old to work all hours in sparkling heels, but the woman still ran her pub with a dazzling smile and an iron fist. Ginny smiled and waved, and received the same in return, but didn't stop to chat. It was almost nine: she'd left Harry to the others for over eighteen hours, and most of that had been time at home. Things could not possibly be going well at the Burrow.

A pinch of powder, a few words, and some swirling flames, and Ginny was stepping out of the fireplace into the living room. She brushed the soot off without noticing: her attention had been immediately caught by the scene being played out in front of her. Arthur had apparently escaped to the Ministry before the trouble started, and George wouldn't have come out of his workshop without a good reason, but the rest of the adults were arranged before her like actors in a poorly-written play. Hopefully someone had remembered to see Hugo and Lily off to the local comprehensive.

Ron was sprawled on the floor, unconscious, a small gash on his forehead still oozing blood onto his already-covered face. Harry - likely the cause of Ron's current condition - knelt over him, wailing as though he believed Ron dead. With one hand he kept Hermione at bay: she seemed to have, once again, forgotten she was a witch and that she didn't need to pull Harry off her husband the muggle way. Molly hovered around, moving this way and that as though looking for an opening to provide some indeterminate sort of help.

Hermione spotted her first. "Ginny, where have you been?" she all but shrieked. "Do you know what we've had to deal with? And I have an important case today, and Ron and Harry have tons of work, and _why aren't you helping?_" This last was delivered in a true shriek that would have done credit to any banshee.

"Ginny." Harry looked up at her, his eyes as scared and lost as if he had been seven and not thirty-seven. "Ginny, Ron... he's..." His hands played feverishly with his wedding ring, trying to turn a stone that wasn't there so he could bring his dead best friend back to life.

Molly moaned softly and watched her beseechingly. The Healer in her, seeing Molly's pale face, knew her mother's heart couldn't take much more of this. The entire scene screamed at her, cried that this was all her fault and she shouldn't have left them. Take care of us, they seemed to plead; take care of them, just as she had for years, because they couldn't do it on their own. Harry was broken, and Hermione and Ron had never been strong enough without him, and Molly had already lost one son... and somehow it fell to Ginny, the Healer, to make it all better.

She'd tried. For years, that was all she'd done: tried to keep things stable and safe for them so they could pretend they were still whole, propped them up so no one would see how the mighty trembled at every breath of wind. Maybe a part of her had once believed that, with enough time and love, they would get better and stand on their own, although as a Healer she'd known it was impossible. Still, she could keep trying. She had to keep trying.

_No,_ whispered a voice. It was quiet, only a faint echo in her mind, but it stopped her even as she began to step forward: to comfort and reassure Harry, to calm Hermione, to heal Ron and help her mother. She'd thought she'd tucked that voice away again as she walked down the tunnel from Hogwarts: last night had been a special case, and it had no place in her daily life. But that small period yesterday had been all the opening to return it needed, and the voice of Ginny Weasley refused to be shut away again. Ginny Weasley was sick of being shoved aside by Ginny Potter and the needs of the family. Ginny Weasley, the voice said, did not care what choices Ginny Potter had made and was prepared to live with, and she wanted her life back, thank you.

"Enough," she snapped, the commanding tone of Healer Weasley - which had once silenced the entire Ward for the Criminally Insane at Saint Mungo's - freezing the scene before her into a ridiculous, melodramatic tableau. Two strides across the room, seven muttered syllables and a palm smacked into his forehead had Harry sitting aside, his expression docile and vacant. Two sharp words and a snap of her fingers woke Ron, who sat up with a groan, his hand going to his bleeding head.

That was all the time it took for Hermione to recover from the shock of dealing with a Ginny who didn't just shut up and take care of them as though that was all there was to her life. "We said we weren't going to sedate him!" Ron winced at her shrill tone, but didn't look up. "You've undone everything we've worked so hard for!"

"Everything _I've_ worked so hard for," Ginny snapped. "You haven't done anything but bury your head in the sand and push your problems onto me. And stop whimpering, Ron, it's only a shallow cut. You've had worse from your owl." She turned back to Hermione and took a deep breath, forcing her voice to come out level and professional. "I have spent more than thirteen years trying to cure him, Hermione, and I'll tell you again what I told you at the start: it cannot be done. I'll deal with Harry now. You and Ron go to work."

Hermione hissed, her back rigid in the _I know best_ posture she had worn so often while they were at Hogwarts. "This is not what we agreed," she began but Ginny Weasley, revelling in her newly-regained autonomy, cut her off.

"What we _agreed_, Hermione, is that I would give up my life so you and Ron could get on with yours. Now _go to work_." When Hermione didn't move, Ginny stormed over to the fireplace herself, tossed in some floo powder, and sent both Ron and Hermione flying into the green flames with a sharp, irritated wave of her wand. Finally rid of the pair of them, she surveyed the room. Oh, right. She took her mother's hand and helped Molly sit down. "I'll make us a cup of tea, Mum, alright?" she said, patting the older woman's shaking hand. "Don't worry about the rest of them for a minute. I'll take care of it all."

* * *

It had been, without question, the worst Potions class ever, but what really bothered James was that he couldn't figure out why. Oh, Bletchley was an openly-biased git on the best of days, but mostly it just meant he was extra critical and picky when it came to the Gryffindors' potions, and James's natural faculty with the subject meant he had few problems. Today, though, he had been extremely ill-disposed towards James in particular, whom he usually regarded with no more than automatic dislike.

Most of the class seemed to think it was because of his fight with Malfoy the day before, and commiserated, but James didn't believe it. Bletchley was the sort of man who would think Malfoy was an annoying little swot, and would likely only take the boy's side if his job required it - and even then, not with any real enthusiasm. He hadn't given any indication of being on friendly terms with Malfoy Sr. at supper last night, either.

He explained all this to Professor Longbottom in the careful, even tones of one who realizes they're in trouble but genuinely can't figure out why. The Head of Hufflepuff - Towler had apparently been unavailable (again) to discipline his own student - listened to the drawn-out answer to his opening question: do you know why you're here?

"Yes," Professor Longbottom mused at length. "I can understand why you wouldn't be able to figure it out. For once," he grinned at James, "you don't have all the facts." It wasn't really sporting to poke fun at students who couldn't poke fun back, James thought, even if it was meant kindly.

"Sir?" he said instead.

The man looked at him speculatively. "If I give you the facts, perhaps you'll be able to figure it out. I can't quite decide, myself." He shrugged, utterly unapologetic. It was a lot harder to look down on Hufflepuff when Longbottom was its Head, James reflected. "First, your mother very kindly accepted Professor Sprout's offer to stay the night at Hogwarts - and no, she's not here, I daresay she's gone home by now - and also my invitation to the Three Broomsticks. We were at students together, you know."

"Yes sir." He hadn't known, actually, but he'd assumed so, since they were about the same age and Professor Longbottom had been very involved with the struggle against He Who Must Not Be Named, as had James's parents.

Longbottom seemed to read this in his face, although how he did _that_, when James was keeping it as carefully blank as possible, was anyone's guess. "Quite. Your mother ignored Professor Bletchley's attempts at conversation over supper and his flirtations in the pub." He chuckled at James's scowl. "She also drank him under the table, and if you mention that to _anyone_, James Potter, you are in for more detentions than you could serve in a lifetime, understand?" He gave a satisfied nod at James's assent. "Now, you may ask me one question, which I may or may not answer, and then you're going to run along to supper."

James hesitated. Most of the story was easy to fill in, so he didn't really need Professor Longbottom's one question. Likely, the man just wanted to know what he would ask, given the chance. Oh well: he knew that Bletchley had been picking on him because he was hung-over and his pride hurt, and the injustice of that was enough to carry James forward without needing any more details. So he might as well ask what he really wanted to know, and hope Longbottom didn't think too much of it. "Did Mum have fun?"

Judging from Longbottom's happy smile, he'd been hoping James would ask something like that. The boy scowled in embarrassment and glared at his teacher. "She did," the man said kindly. "Now scat."

* * *

**References**

The new DADA teacher: Animal Control Officer Ed Frid, from the Red Green Show  
The solicitous coat rack: Disney's Beauty and the Beast  
Circles of Hell: Dante's Inferno


	4. Chapter 3

_I've replaced my old POV-change markers (which were 5 dashes, but reduced to 2) with lines, so hopefully they're easier to spot now. It still refuses to underline things, though.  
_

* * *

**Chapter Three**_  
In which enemies and horror abound_  
Friday, October 2, 1998

It was the Friday evening before the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year and Ginny Weasley was sitting in the library, desperately trying to finish her Potions assignment so she could go - or at least, go without feeling mildly guilty about the work she had left undone. It was perfectly reasonable, therefore, that she should be annoyed when Draco Malfoy took the seat across the table from her and pulled out his Transfiguration textbook.

"Malfoy," she said, in the sweet tone anyone in Gryffindor could have told him meant she would rip out his throat if he so much as blinked funny, "bugger off before I curse you into next week."

He didn't laugh, or sneer, or snap something witty and insulting; instead, he smiled, and Ginny was shocked to find herself thinking it looked almost genuine. "That," he said quietly, "is why I'm sitting here."

"You want me to curse you into next week?" Her hand inched towards her wand. She'd be happy to oblige, since it looked like he'd just sit there and accept it. And if he was asking, she probably wouldn't get in as much trouble.

"Hmm? Well, I'd rather you didn't," he admitted. He wasn't looking at her - he always looked at people when he was mocking them - but down at his book, so the fall of his hair hid most of his expression. He didn't slick his hair back anymore, and Ginny suddenly wondered if it was so he could use it as a shield, as he was doing now. "It's just that if I'm going to be cursed into next week, which is pretty bloody likely, I'd like some warning." He peeked at her and, obviously judging it safe to let a little of his odious personality show through, drawled, "since Weasleys seem to like throwing insults before hexes."

She stared at him, incredulous. "You want warning so you can, what? Mentally prepare yourself?" This didn't seem like the Draco Malfoy she remembered from previous years. He was still an arrogant little swot, yes, but he wasn't openly insulting any more. Probably losing everything and being openly hated had something to do with that. She wondered why he'd come back.

He shrugged. "Why not?" He sighed. "Look, Weasley. We're enemies, right?" She didn't see why he bothered to wait for her nod, but he seemed to take some satisfaction in the confirmation that she really did hate his snivelling ferret arse. "It's really just that I'd rather be hexed into oblivion by someone who hates me - for whom it's personal, you know? - than someone who just hates me on general principles."

"You, Draco Malfoy, are advocating against stereotyping and prejudice? I can't be hearing this right."

He glared at her. "Shut up, Weasley. Go suck a skrewt." But he looked so uncomfortable - rather like Ron when she teased him about liking Hermione - that she couldn't really be angry at him for saying it.

"You're certainly making it easy for me to hate you," she said dryly.

"You're a worthwhile enemy." There was nothing she could say to _that_. Feeling somehow special, as she did when Professor Sprout praised her work with a difficult plant, Ginny went back to her assignment. She wasn't about to give Malfoy the satisfaction of thinking he'd won whatever contest had been going on behind their conversation - although he probably had.

She'd made a little progress on her assignment when, all of a sudden, someone grabbed her head and shoved her roughly, face-first, into her textbook. She shoved the hand away and sat up, fixing Malfoy with a glare. "Do you want to tell me what _that _was for, Malfoy?" she demanded. She immediately regretted asking - she should have hexed first and asked questions never.

"Look behind you," he said, getting up and moving down a few seats so that he no longer sat directly across from her. She turned slightly, keeping an eye on him in case he tried anything else. There was a small crater in the stone wall behind where her head had been. It would take a nasty curse to leave something like that.

"Oh." She hadn't sensed anything coming at all. He must have gotten a lot of practice dodging jinxes and the like in the last month, to be able sense what she hadn't even seen coming. "What are you doing?"

This time he forgot to hold back his sneer. "Now I don't have to take care of you because you're too dense to duck for yourself."

"I'm sorry," she snapped. "Some of us aren't universally hated, so we don't get as much practice."

He blinked, then seemed to run through their last exchange in his head. "Bugger," he said. "I was doing so well at being meek, too." He glared at her as though it were somehow her fault he'd messed up.

"Bollocks," she snapped. "You don't know what the word means."

"Didn't I just..."

"No, you didn't," she said, cutting him off. "You were just as much an arrogant, conceited prat as always."

He frowned. Then, apparently at a loss for anything else to say, said, "Doesn't mean I don't know what the word means."

He sounded so petulant that Ginny giggled. "Bugger off, Ferret." He was a stupid, arrogant, bad-tempered bastard, and she hated him, but he hadn't had to protect her from that curse. But he'd done it, because... Ginny searched for a way to explain what she felt instinctively... because he knew what it meant to be enemies. You could be sneaky and malicious and mean, and hex the other person ten ways from Sunday, but there were some things you just didn't do. That was what made being an enemy different from being evil.

Ginny turned back to her assignment, and gasped. A chip of stone - obviously from the crater in the wall - lay in the smashed remains of her ink bottle. Her assignment was ruined, and ink was dripping off the table onto her robes. She swore. Malfoy looked at her, realized the problem, and frowned, but Ginny was ignoring him. Instead, she was searching for the smarmy little bugger responsible. She spotted a small group of sixth years who seemed far too interested in the events at her table, and looked not a little smug.

Five minutes later, she found herself outside the door of the library, her books stuffed haphazardly in her bag and her robes cleaned by an irritated wave of Madame Pince's wand. "Impressive," Malfoy said, and she dearly wanted to punch him. "You know, if I had hexed three students, they'd probably be carting me off to Azkaban right now." Ginny glared at him. "I'd also like to point out that I was completely innocent - in fact, I was the _victim _in this whole thing - and I still got kicked out."

"If you're quite through with the self-pity, Malfoy?" Ginny demanded. She felt she ought to just walk away and distance herself from this whole, stupid mess - which was too his fault, seeing as that curse had been aimed at him in the first place - but for some reason couldn't.

He seemed to consider her suggestion. "No," he said at last. "It's my new favourite pastime, you see. Since I've been banned from Quidditch and all." The old Malfoy, Ginny thought, would have kicked up a fuss because Ron and Harry, who were also in their eighth year, had not been excluded, as he had, for being 'too old'. He wasn't exactly bearing the injustice nobly, but he was at least doing it more or less silently.

"Oh, bugger off," she sighed. She really wasn't up for dealing with him just now.

He leaned against the wall and smirked at her. It was the same arrogant, hateful smirk he'd always had, but somehow seeing it didn't make Ginny mad. Perhaps it was because it felt like, in saying she was his enemy, he'd admitted to regarding her as an equal. And being hated was a very different thing than being looked down upon. "I could," he said. "But then who would tell you that the potion in your assignment only needs seventeen newt's tongues, not seventy."

Ginny flushed red. She had written 'seventeen'! As though sensing the direction of her thoughts, Malfoy held up her stained, nearly-illegible assignment. Glaring, she snatched it from him, not caring about the ink that got all over her hands. But sure enough... how on earth had that happened? She must not have been paying attention, and told him so. "And I don't need your help in Potions."

"And I don't need your help in Transfiguration," he drawled. "But I'm bored of studying on my own."

"Then don't. It's not like your marks will suffer." Malfoy, she had discovered during their shared classes over the past month, was an excellent student, despite the obvious attempts at sabotage by those around him.

That smirk grew a little wider, a little more insufferable, and just a little bit evil. "Or," he said, "I could beat Granger in all the exams."

"Your marks don't count in the rankings." The so-called 'eighth years' attended class with the seventh years, but they had been passed over for consideration as Head Boy and Girl, Prefect and - theoretically - places on the Quidditch teams. There were only six of them, after all - the three Gryffindors, Malfoy, and a pair of Ravenclaws who claimed the War disrupted their studying for the NEWTs - and as McGonagall had said, they'd had their chance at those things.

"No," he agreed. "But she'd know."

Ginny cast around for an objection she knew had to exist. "But... why?" she said at last. Not quite as strong as she'd hoped for, admittedly.

"Because I feel the overwhelming urge to do something really, really evil, but my options are somewhat limited," he drawled. And somehow... somehow it was funny.

"So you thought to yourself, 'I know, I'll _study_. They'll never know what hit them'. Is that what you're saying?" Ginny asked, fighting back the urge to smile in case she smirked back at him, even a little.

He nodded solemnly. "But I could see you're too well acquainted with fiendishly evil plans to be deceived, so I needed to subvert you to my side."

Even biting the inside of her cheek, Ginny couldn't help but smile, just a bit. "I still hate you, you know," she informed him.

"Of course," he agreed. "We're enemies, after all."

* * *

"Malfoy's up to something," Harry said. He was pacing around the Common Room, restless with the need to _do something_. Ron and Hermione exchanged looks behind his back, and wondered if Ginny wasn't right in saying that Harry had a compulsive need to save the world. She'd left for the library a few hours ago, refusing to listen to Harry go on about what the Death Eaters - and especially Malfoy - might be up to. "We should go to Dumbledore."

"Harry, Dumbledore's..." Hermione started to say, but cut off at a frantic chopping motion from Ron. "He's not here right now," she finished instead.

"McGonagall, then," Harry insisted. "They have to know he's up to something."

Ron sighed. They'd been through this at least once a week, and by now he knew to just wait it out. Harry would come back to his senses and realize that the War was over. The mediwizard at Saint Mungo's had said the confusion was caused by the trauma of the final battle. That was bogus, as far as Ron was concerned. Harry was just so used to paranoia, plots and danger that it would take him a while to accept that they were finally safe. "We can't go to McGonagall with just that, mate. We tell her Malfoy's up to something, she'll want proof; and face it, we haven't got any."

"Malfoy's all alone," Hermione added. "He doesn't have any allies. I doubt he'd be stupid enough to try something."

Harry threw himself into a chair. "Still," he huffed. "I know he is."

For the upteenth time, Ron and Hermione traded looks. "Want to go practice some flying?" Ron suggested. "I bet we could even get Hermione up in the air."

"No, Ron..." Hermione started to protest. He stared at her, pleading. _Do this for Harry_. She sighed. "Well, maybe," she allowed.

* * *

"The Charms classroom?" Ginny asked. She'd let Malfoy pick their destination and simply followed behind him, watching how all the portraits made faces at him or called out insults as he passed. He walked as though he didn't notice, although Ginny found herself wondering if his posture had always been that rigid.

He gave her a look that said she was being exceptionally dense, and he didn't appreciate it. "It's a nice place to study, and _someone _got us kicked out of the library."

"You," she agreed. He opened the door, looking like he'd dearly love to give a scathing retort. Then he slammed the door closed again. "Oh," Ginny said quietly. "I didn't need to see that."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Malfoy said, and indeed he looked somewhat green. It was not a good colour for him.

Ginny had, personally, always thought Marcus Belby was a bit of a poof. Judging by what he'd been doing with Romilda Vane - not that Ginny was, because she was actively trying to forget what she'd just seen - he most definitely wasn't. She might even have thought they made a nice couple, if she hadn't just walked in on them doing... that. Wands really weren't supposed to be used that way. Fighting back nausea, Ginny decided she was probably just as green as Malfoy, and hoped it didn't make her look as bad as it did him.

"If you'll excuse me from our study plans," Malfoy said, his voice oddly inflectionless, "I think I need to go scrub my brain."

"Me too," said Ginny.

He stared at her for a moment, obviously trying to decide something. Finally, he said gruffly, "Come on then." He turned and walked off without another word. Confused, but also desperate to get away from the muffled sounds that were now coming through the classroom door, Ginny hurried after him.

"Where are we going?"

The look he sent her would have been much more scathing if he didn't look about to hurl. Ginny would later wonder how, after all he'd seen, something like _that _had still managed to affect him so badly. "One does not normally get piss drunk in a public corridor, Weasley."

"Oh," she said. A minute later, she felt compelled to ask, "Is it... acceptable... to drink with one's enemies?"

"Consider it a temporary alliance against the forces of great evil," he snapped. Obviously, Malfoy really wasn't in a happy mood right now. His shoes clicked purposefully on the stone floors as he led her down towards the dungeons. When they reached an apparently blank section of wall, he muttered a password, and Ginny found herself being led into the Slytherin Common Room.

She'd been to the Ravenclaw dormitories a couple of times, and had once spent a rather memorable evening - that she wished she could forget - in the Hufflepuff Common Room. That, Ginny told herself, was why it didn't feel so strange to be in what was indisputably Slytherin territory. "One does not get piss drunk in a public corridor, but they do in the Slytherin Common Room?" she asked. She couldn't decide if she sounded annoyed or amused.

Malfoy had made his way behind a discreet counter in the corner and ducked down, so his voice was slightly muffled. "'One' is singular, Weasley, and 'they' is plural. Do try." Ginny dearly wished for something to throw at his head, but the Spartan decoration and heavy furniture in the room left her with very few options. If he annoyed her enough, she could probably use her wand to throw an armchair at him, but that would require him being an insufferable prat, even by Malfoy standards.

He stood up again, holding a tumbler of rich amber liquid. "Do I get a glass too?" Ginny asked, annoyed.

"No," he said, smirking. "But I've poured some Fiendfyre into a crystal tumbler, if you'd like it." He held up a second tumbler. "Of course, if you really want an empty glass, I'm sure something can be arranged."

He really was insufferable, Ginny thought. She marched over and snatched the drink out of his hand. She drank some quickly, knowing it looked inelegant - and that he was probably itching to make some remark about it - but not really caring. She choked as the liquid burned her throat and up into her nose. "Bloody hell," she gasped, when she'd recovered. "That's not Firewhiskey."

Malfoy chuckled and took a sip of his own drink. He tried to look casual about it, but Ginny saw his nose wrinkle a bit at the sensation. "I told you, it's Fiendfyre Whiskey," he said, sounding a bit choked. _Of course_, Ginny thought._ He's Malfoy_. It was only natural that he'd be drinking something three times the price (and with three times the alcohol) of Firewhiskey. At least it would be a very efficient way of forgetting what they had seen in the Charms classroom. Ginny took another swallow.

"You didn't answer my question," she said.

"Which was?"

She couldn't tell if he was trying to be annoying or if he actually didn't remember. "Do you normally drink in the Slytherin Common Room?"

"Well, there _is _a bar," he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Seeing her look, he sighed. "Come now, Weasley. If your parents were proper Purebloods you'd be used to it."

Ginny glared, not liking the slur on her parents. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked hotly. If he said a single word against her parents, that armchair was going to be flying for his head double-quick.

"If they went to house parties and suppers and suchlike," Malfoy said. "You know. _Society_." Oh, Ginny thought. _That stuff_. Not all Purebloods were snobby aristocrats, but she could understand how a sheltered little boy like Malfoy might think that. If everyone he saw at such gatherings was a Pureblood, it would probably make sense in his poor, deluded little mind that every Pureblood was like that. _A implies B, so B implies A_. Professor Vector would have failed him on the spot if he used ridiculous logic like that on an exam.

Ginny chuckled, and was pleased to see him stiffen. Malfoy really didn't like being laughed at. "Some people," she informed him, "don't see the fun in getting drunk at parties and sleeping with other people's spouses."

"Some people," he returned dryly, "don't know what they're missing." But he grimaced a little, and took an extra-large swallow of his whiskey. At least he knew what moral behaviour looked like, Ginny thought, even if he wasn't really partisan to it.

"But, really, Fiendfyre?" Ginny asked, studying the golden liquid in her tumbler. "Butterbeer I could understand, but don't the teachers object to hard liquor?"

Malfoy shrugged unconcernedly, although there was a slight crease to his brow that suggested he'd never before questioned this, and was now puzzled by it. "I'm legally an adult." Something about the way he said it suggested that the teachers wouldn't have been able to stop him, even if he weren't.

"The rest of your House isn't," Ginny pointed out.

"The rest of my House," he drawled, "don't have access to my private liquor cabinet. They drink _Firewhiskey _like a bunch of milksop Hufflepuffs." Ginny decided not to point out that everyone, Hufflepuffs and otherwise, drank Firewhiskey as their hard liquor of choice, and he was the only one who was a big enough prat to think it wasn't good enough. "Are you telling me no one in Gryffindor drinks?" His tone suggested that, if so, he'd just found another thing to mock.

Ginny couldn't have denied it, even if she'd wanted to. Ever since she could remember, there'd always been a bottle floating around somewhere in the Tower - usually procured by the twins or Lee Jordan - but only a few of the older students had indulged. It had been another little act of rebellion, just like sneaking into the Forbidden Forest or playing with Fanged Frisbees in the corridors. Everyone knew about it but no one, not even Percy in full Prefect-mode, had been able to catch the perpetrators in the act. But since Dumbledore's death, and even more in the last few months, it had taken on a new dimension. The bottle appeared more frequently, and not just at after-Quidditch celebrations. Before the end of her fifth year, she couldn't remember ever seeing one of her Housemates so drunk they passed out. These days, it wasn't uncommon to find at least one a week, curled around their bottle and hidden away in some dark corner, long after the younger students had gone to bed. "We try not to make a show of it," she said at last, unwilling to admit to him the devastation the War had wrecked on her friends and her House.

"Malfoy, what are you doing?" A group of seventh years had come in and were staring at the pair of them in shock.

Ginny could feel the tension radiating from him, although to her eyes he still looked relaxed. "What does it look like?"

"That's a Weasley," one of the girls said, all but spitting the name. Ginny wanted to hex her - it seemed to be a pervading mood for her today. "She's the _enemy_."

"Yes," Malfoy agreed, seeming irrationally pleased that they'd noticed this. Ginny wondered if all that Dark Magic hadn't scrambled his brain at some point. It would certainly explain a lot.

"She's drinking in our Common Room," a boy added - Ginny really ought to have known their names by now, since she'd been having classes with them for so long, but they just weren't memorable people. He sounded like he felt the need to point this out in case Malfoy were too stupid to notice on his own.

"Of course." Malfoy looked confused, but Ginny caught a malicious gleam in his eye that she didn't entirely trust. "Oh, I see. You're wondering why." His face took on a look of such extreme cunning it was almost comical. "It's all part of my nefarious plot to get her drunk and do unspeakable, licentious things to her, all in a misguided effort to break Potty emotionally, and really, really piss off her four-million brothers." Being Slytherins, the seventh years quickly seemed to realize he was being sarcastic; it appeared to confuse them.

"Are you really going to do unspeakable, licentious things to me?" Ginny asked. She tried to sound worried and timid, and was sure she'd have pulled if off if she could only hide the damn smirk that kept slipping onto her face.

Malfoy seemed to consider this. "If I can still pronounce 'nefarious' when we're done the bottle, yes," he decided.

"Oh. Good." Malfoy's head snapped around and he started at her. She smiled sweetly. Being cunning and evil wasn't the sole domain of Slytherins, after all: Gryffindors could occasionally play that game too.

The thing about stupidity, Ginny had always found, was that it made a person inclined to open their mouths at times when anyone brighter knew to shut the hell up. "I don't know what you think you're playing at, Malfoy, but you don't scare us." Which really was a stupid thing to say, Ginny reflected, because a glance at the boy's friends showed that, yes, Malfoy did actually scare them quite a bit.

"Oh?" In that single frightening instant, Malfoy's face transformed from that of a disgraced boy who had once ruled the Slytherins with borrowed power to that of a man who could crush them with his own. His expression was terrifying, and Ginny felt a strange, elated rush from the knowledge that this man was her enemy.

"We'll be going now," one of the girls said, grabbing the stupid boy by the arm and dragging him off towards the dormitories. They others followed, trying to saunter in a way that said they weren't running away, and Malfoy had better watch himself.

The blond boy seemed to deflate when they'd disappeared. "They'll probably put spiders in your bed or something," Ginny commented.

He gave a slight, bitter laugh. "It's not the worst they could do. Shall we move this somewhere else?"

"Running away, Malfoy?" she asked lightly, ducking around the bar. She pulled out a couple of clean tumblers and two fresh bottles of Fiendfyre. "We'll need these, then."

"I'm not running away," he informed her archly, picking up the bottles. "This is a strategic retreat in preparation for when I'm too drunk to tell the walls apart from the floor."

"Yes, I can see how it would be hard to look scary when you can't stand up. Tell me, Malfoy, do you giggle a lot when you're drunk?"

Malfoy could convey a lot with just a blink. The one he used now suggested that she, as Ron would put it, belonged at the Funny Farm. "No," he said, with great dignity.

"Oh," Ginny said with a shrug, following him into one of the hallways that branched off the Common Room. "Harry does." It was quite amusing to watch him stumble when there was nothing for him to have tripped over. Where was his vaunted composure now? Ginny wondered with a wicked smirk.

At the far end of the hallway was a discreet black door, identical to the seven others they had passed. Malfoy muttered something - a password for a dorm? That was unusual - and the door sprang open. Inside was a room decorated as she would have expected a Slytherin dorm to be: slate floors, dressed stone walls, heavy black furniture upholstered in green with silver trim. Silver sconces on the walls held flickering torches that, like all the ones in Hogwarts, shed more light than they ought to have. There was also only one bed, a massive four poster carved of dark wood, its brilliant white sheets mussed.

"You have your own room?" she demanded, momentarily forgetting that there was a similar arrangement in Gryffindor.

"Oh no," he said, putting the bottles down on a side table near some armchairs. "It's just that everyone else in my year is invisible." Ginny refilled her glass, then topped his up as well. "They like their furniture to be invisible as well," he added.

If he'd stopped before that last sentence, it would have been a true-to-form Malfoy comment. Ginny stared at him in suspicion, and made a discovery. "You're a cheap drunk."

In light of this, his glare really wasn't scary at all. "What would you know about it?" he demanded petulantly, trying to hide by taking another swallow of whiskey. Apparently he'd had enough now not to feel the burn as it went down. "Oh right. Twenty-four brothers."

"Six."

"Twenty-six. My mistake," he agreed, utterly serious. But there was that light in his eye again, and Ginny knew he was laughing. He was very guarded with his real emotions, it seemed - not at all like the Weasleys - but once you recognized his tells he was pretty obvious. It helped that he wasn't making an active effort to be obnoxious right now, and his default level of obnoxiousness didn't seem to be much higher than Ron's.

Malfoy threw himself into one of the armchairs, and waved a hand for her to do the same. She dropped into one, and was pleasantly surprised by how comfortable it was. Most of the dorms in the castle had furniture that had been abused by too many generations of students to be genuinely comfortable. Obviously this dorm was new, just like the ones that had appeared for the eighth year Gryffindors.

"I'm not drunk yet," Malfoy added. "But I intend to be."

"Good," Ginny said, finishing her glass and holding it out for him to refill.

He scowled. "I'm not a house elf."

"I filled last time. It's called taking turns; normal people know about it."

"I thank the powers-that-be daily that I'm not 'normal'," he retorted, but obligingly refilled her glass and his own. "And why 'good'? You aren't planning to take advantage of me, are you? That would be..."

"Not nice?" Ginny suggested helpfully, and was gratified to see him choke on his whiskey. "And no, I'm not. But I plan to forget that scarring scene we had to witness. So cheers." In the back of her mind, she was aware that this was quite a change from arguing with him in the library as she had been only a few hours ago. There was also the Potions assignment, but she'd deal with that Sunday.

"To enemies," Malfoy agreed with a cryptic smile, raising his glass to hers.

* * *

Harry's imagined conspiracies aside - although it was a bit suspicious that Malfoy had decided to come back to Hogwarts, especially considering how he was treated - the school year was progressing, which meant there was homework to be done. Ron and Harry had gone to bed, but Hermione wanted to get some work done without the pair of them distracting her. A glance at the clock told her it was almost midnight. She should probably pack it in, soon: contrary to what Ron and Harry seemed to believe, she did know what 'enough' was, even with regards to homework.

The portrait hole opened, and Ginny stumbled in, giggling to herself when she tripped over her own feet. Hermione wrinkled her nose; this sort of behaviour might be expected from the boys, but Ginny really ought to have better sense. Still, Hermione allowed, even if Ginny hadn't been through what they had, she'd been through a lot these past few months, what with losing Fred and all.

"Where have you been, Ginny?" She tried not to sound nosy and accusing, really she did. But how else could it come across, when she was questioning an obviously-drunk Ginny upon the girl's late-night return to the Common Room?

Ginny snickered. "Kicking my enemy's arse - whoops, that's a chair." She managed to navigate her way around it and dropped into the overstuffed armchair, frowning for no obvious reason as she did. She bounced up and down a bit, as though testing the chair. "Squishy," she declared.

"Ah... yes, it is," Hermione agreed. At least Ginny was a fairly tame drunk, unlike her brother, who tended to get into fights with cloak-stands and portraits. Or Harry, who giggled and fell over a lot: there really wasn't any reasoning with him. "Which enemy?" She wasn't being nosy or anything, she assured herself. She was just making sure Ginny wasn't going to get into trouble.

The redheaded girl smirked, and Hermione was unaccountably startled. That was not at all the sort of expression she associated with sweet little Ginny Weasley, who was just as blunt and honest as her brother. If smirks could be patented, that one would be owned by the Slytherins, and one evil blond prat in particular. "Malfoy's gonna have quite the headache tomorrow," she said.

Oh. That was alright, then. If she'd just been relieving a bit of stress by hexing Malfoy into oblivion, that was fine. She probably wouldn't get into trouble for that. It didn't explain why she was drunk, but Hermione felt like she could probably forgive whatever indiscretion had led to that: hexing Malfoy was a bit like a Get Out of Jail Free card, in her books.

"Come on, Ginny, let's get you to bed," she said, pulling the protesting girl out of her armchair. She didn't really need to say anything about the drinking, she decided: the hangover Ginny would have tomorrow morning would teach her.

* * *

**References****:**

Etiquette of enmity (as a continuing theme): Lord Albert Selachii and Lord Charles Venturi, Terry Pratchett's 'Night Watch'


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**_  
In which there is cause for celebration_  
Tuesday, July 31, 2007

People were screaming when Ginny woke up. Someone hadn't been quick enough to feed Rosie, and the baby was proving to the entire household that she had inherited her father's lungs. Her angry wailing had set Harry off, as screams of distress always did and now he was on a rampage, hexing any nefarious-looking potted plant or throw pillow to kingdom-come. She could hear Ron barrelling through the corridors - likely just in his under-shorts - after his best mate, trying to calm Harry down. Somewhere downstairs Hermione seemed to be having a break-down, probably to the same old tune of being a bad mother who couldn't even remember to feed her own child.

Ginny glanced at the clock. Five in the morning, and the Weasley family was eager to get started on another day of mayhem. The irony was that Ginny would have slept right through it if not for a tiny pair of hands tugging at the sleeve of her nightdress. Jimmy's wide, North Sea-coloured eyes met hers with a seriousness that could not be normal in a two year old.

"Good morning, love," she said, pulling her son into bed with her with the intention of going right back to sleep. The tot was probably just distressed by all the fuss, and would let her sleep once he knew he was safe from it.

Jimmy suffered this docilely for a few minutes, then wiggled impatiently. "Unc'l George wan'sa see you, Mummy," he said, his speech remarkably clear as always. It had always seemed like Jimmy found any sort of baby-speech to be, well, childish. Anyone who tried speaking to him that way was treated with all the disdain possible for someone just over two feet tall.

Oh. Bugger. It looked like she was going to have to get up after all. Sighing, she threw off the covers and grabbed her housecoat, shoving her feet into slippers as she headed out the door. It wasn't cold out, but it never hurt to wear extra layers when venturing into George's workshop, just in case something nasty went off. Jimmy toddled behind her in the bright orange Cannons pyjamas that had been a birthday gift from Ron a few days before. Ginny didn't think he was very impressed with the colour, but he seemed to like the embroidered Snitches that tried to hide at the backs of his knees and under the collar.

She met Fleur in the kitchen, waddling with the weight of her pregnancy as she made breakfast for her impatient three year old son. Jimmy was handed off, with strict instructions that this time he wasn't to put jam in Fabian's hair "t'make it like ours", and Ginny let herself into George's workshop.

Her brother was sitting in a heavy wicker chair with faded blue cushion, which looked out of place in the cluttered industry of the room. He was feeding baby Fred from a bottle of formula, humming tunelessly. On a counter nearby, something green was bubbling ominously, occasionally shooting up gold sparks. "Alright, George?"

He looked up and met her gaze. His eyes were filled with surprising warmth and love, especially considering the hollow shell he'd been since Fred... since the final battle. "Fred said his first word." He looked down at the baby, who stared back at him with dark eyes. "Say it again, Fred." He made a few strange clicking and popping noises, and said something in gibberish.

Ginny watched them both carefully. As a Healer, she didn't expect Fred to start talking for at least another month; she was also concerned about what this display said about George's mental state. Baby Fred gurgled happily, then said, "Bok!" Ginny found herself returning the smile. It wasn't a word, exactly, but apparently she had nothing to worry about.

George looked at her, his face positively glowing. "See?" He murmured a few more nonsense words to the baby, punctuated by the popping noises. Suddenly, Ginny understood.

"George." He looked up at her inquisitively. "Did you and Fred use twin speak?" That the two communicated between each other effortlessly had been a fact of life for so long that she'd never questioned it before, but it would make sense that they had.

He gave her a lopsided grin. "I would have thought you knew. We used it almost constantly until we were seven." Ginny didn't point out that when the twins had been seven, she'd only been four, and therefore not inclined to notice much of anything. "Percy used to call us savages because of it."

"Percy used to call you savages because you made his stuffed toys attack each other with the good silver," Ginny retorted dryly. George shrugged one shoulder, the other staying perfectly still to support Fred. "So what does 'bok' mean?"

That foolish, happy grin came back full force. "George." Ginny's return smile was genuine.

It was only later, when Harry was calmly eating his eggs and Ron had convinced Hermione that she was a wonderful mother, that it occurred to Ginny that most of the twins' language sounded like explosions. Somehow, she wasn't terribly surprised.

* * *

Someone was crying when Draco woke up. He wondered, as he did every day, if ignoring it and going back to sleep would make him an insensitive husband; decided he didn't care, and got up anyway. "Sabine," he said. Her shoulders stopped shaking immediately and her breathing stilled; he had to admire her self-control.

"Yes Draco?" Her voice was rock-steady and perfectly calm.

"Is everything alright?" Obviously it wasn't, but what else was he supposed to say? The Healer claimed it was nothing to be too concerned about, and that postpartum depression was almost to be expected in a woman of Sabine's disposition, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with her constant crying. Draco had never seen Narcissa cry (and Lucius went without saying), and as far back as he could remember Draco himself had never cried. Crying was simply not something Malfoys did. Except, apparently, for Sabine.

"Of course."

"That's good," he said, a little awkwardly. Circe, over two years of marriage to this woman and he still didn't know what to say to her. She was everything he needed in a wife - beautiful, intelligent, well-mannered and from a good family - and they shared many interests, but somehow they'd never connected the way Draco might have wished. He respected Sabine a great deal, and liked her, but... if he'd loved her, he thought he might have known what to do to help her.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the enormous bed that Sabine had insisted on for their bedroom. He was all for having space to sleep in, but the thing was nearly as big as the rooms where the servants lived. That was another thing - the servants. Draco had been waited on by house elves his entire life, but he was still getting used to having human servants. France's wizarding nobility found house elves crude, apparently. Draco wasn't fond of the little buggers himself - they tended to be a bit fanatical - but something about the servility of the wizards and witches Sabine employed disturbed him deeply. He'd never said anything to Sabine about it, and probably never would. Instead, he'd just made it clear to the servants that he expected the same quick, invisible service he'd come to expect from house elves. Most of them probably thought him a right bastard; he just didn't want to see them bowing to him.

"I'll check in on Nurse before I leave, shall I?" Nurse he could deal with. She was a large, no-nonsense Belgian woman whose very presence reeked of respectability and practicality. She took care of the baby, which was a very proper and dignified profession for a witch, to Draco's way of thinking. He'd taken to her within the first week, when she'd threatened to box his ears for making too much noise while the baby was trying to sleep. He'd have to let her go sooner or later, though, because what he liked most about her was the way she reminded him of a witch back in England, whom he desperately needed to forget.

"Have a good day, Draco," Sabine said. He muttered something in acknowledgement, and went to get dressed. Perhaps he ought to start running Malfoy Enterprises personally: he needed a hobby to take his mind off his home life.

* * *

Harry Potter Day had been declared a national wizarding holiday five years before. In celebration, the Ministry held an annual parade through wizarding London from Gringott's to the Memorial Garden that opened off Diagon Alley. Speeches were made by members of the Ministry and civic dignitaries, and this year there was a concert by Wyvern, the well-known cello and horn quintet. Special cakes, filled with raisins and seeds, were baked for the children, and it was considered lucky to give a shiny new sickle to an orphan. Witches and wizards in their twenties - the generation that had gone to Hogwarts with Harry and grown up knowing the terror of repeated, secret attacks - used the day off to get piss drunk and forget that anyone named Harry Potter had ever existed.

Sitting on the stone step of Flourish and Blotts, sipping his chilled white-needle tea, Neville reflected on the ironies of the holiday. For one thing, no one who actually knew Harry was involved in the entire thing - many, in fact, had tried to put an end to the holiday. The Ministry had rejected those petitions, saying that if Harry himself asked, they'd consider it. They didn't know that Harry never would because Harry, alone of all the wizards in England, didn't know the day existed.

Probably only Ginny - England's leading authority on almancy despite her retirement as a Healer - knew exactly what had happened to Harry, but Neville understood well enough what it had done to his friend. Harry had never moved past the day of the final battle, and remained somehow trapped in that dark, dangerous day. He could do his job as an Auror because he saw it as part of the battle, and had Ron at his side every single moment to help him deal with anything that didn't make sense in that context. He seemed perfectly normal until he perceived a threat to someone he cared about; then he lost himself completely, madness overtaking him as he tried to protect them.

And no one but the Weasleys and a few close friends knew. The outcry in the wizarding world if it was ever discovered... _Well_, Neville thought to himself, taking another sip of his tea, _just look at Harry Potter Day._ If the public ever found out Harry Potter actually was mentally ill (ignoring all those articles in the Prophet from when they were at school) the fall-out would be enormous.

There was hope, though. Neville smiled and accepted the seed cake a stooped, mostly-blind old witch offered him. Ron said that things had improved for Harry since his marriage to Ginny, which had stabilized his home life. Neville just hoped his friend recovered soon.

* * *

They were halfway through cake and presents when it all went to hell. Fleur would have given the bitch such a slap she'd have scars to rival Bill's, but her husband's firm hands and soothing words about taking care of the baby kept her in her seat - barely. She was incensed that no one else in the family made any move to tell the slag that she was unwelcome: Hermione and Ron sat there and looked deeply troubled, Molly fluttered around, Arthur stuttered, and poor Ginny just sat there quietly as though she had known all along. George she would forgive, because he was too busy clucking to Frederick to realize the bitch was there. But the rest of them... Ginny, Fleur told Bill later, was far too good for the people she called her family. And she was far, far too good for Harry.

"Hi Harry," Cho Chang said, a little shyly, and smiled. Fleur wanted to rip the professionally-styled black hair right off the woman's thick skull. Just wait until she wasn't eight months pregnant: she'd beat the woman to death with a broom.

Harry blushed pink, and even knowing he wasn't right in the head, Fleur wanted to strangle him. "Hi Cho." He looked like a silly, besotted fourteen year old at his first ball, instead of a married man celebrating his twenty-seventh birthday at home with his family.

"I... I... Happy birthday, Harry." Fleur wondered if Charlie would let her borrow a dragon, so she could roast this woman alive and have it eat out her entrails.

"Teddy, Victoire, Fabian... your mother's going to take you upstairs, and..."

"Non," Fleur snapped, irritated. "They are going to go upstairs with you, Bill. I am going to be with Ginny, because it seems her family will not!" He looked at her, a bit shocked. "Go!" He took James from Ginny's arms, gave his sister a kiss on the cheek, and went, taking the older children with him. When he had gone, Fleur turned to face their uninvited guest, glaring fiercely.

"I just..." The young woman was trembling. "I promised I would..." There was a soft cry from the swaddled bundle in her arms. Harry was across the room in an instant, carefully taking it from her and cradling the child as he never had with James.

"Albus? Severus?" he crooned. "Professor? You're here now. Oh thank god." He sank to his knees and held the child close, tears trickling down his cheeks.

Cho looked helplessly around the room. "When I told Harry I was pregnant, he said... he said I should bring his son to him. He wanted to name him Albus Severus, so I did, and..." She trailed off, staring at them beseechingly. Fleur, for her part, could not believe that no one had said anything yet.

"You slut!" she declared, standing and looking as fiercely haughty and angry as a very pregnant woman could. Ginny was at her side in an instant, gently taking Fleur's arm and urging her not to over-exert herself. As always, Fleur thought sadly, her first thought was for someone else's well-being, even though her own life was falling down around her ears. She pulled her hand roughly out of Ginny's grasp and levelled her wand at the shaking witch. "You have until the count of three to get out of my sight," she informed her, well aware that it took several times that to get beyond the Apparation wards, even at a dead run. "Un... deux..."

Cho started backing away. Fleur didn't bother finishing her count, and sent a flurry of curses flying at the woman. Now Cho did turn and run, and Fleur waddled after her, screaming curses in Latin, French and Romanian, until Cho passed the ward boundaries and Disapparated. "Hmph," Fleur declared emphatically, waddling back to her seat with a round of scorching glares for everyone who had done nothing to help poor Ginny.

"Thank you," Ginny whispered as she helped Fleur sit back down. Tears glimmered in the corners of her eyes, but didn't fall. Fleur didn't think Ginny had shed a tear since the night before her wedding, when Fleur had found her sobbing as though her heart had broken and would never mend.

Fleur patted her hand. "It is what sisters do for each other." With a cut-off cry, the younger woman threw her arms around Fleur and buried her face in her shoulder. Over Ginny's quivering shoulder, Fleur fixed each of the dumbfounded Weasley's with a glare. "Get out of my sight," she snapped. "And take the bastard with you."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest - _just typical_ - and Fleur raised her wand threateningly. Hermione's mouth closed with a click of teeth, and she turned and marched out of the room. Ron followed her, leading Harry, who still clutched his bastard son. Molly hesitated only a second before hurrying after Harry, no doubt to fuss over him and the baby.

Arthur came to stand just behind Ginny. Fleur looked into her father-in-law's eyes, and saw in them a terrible sorrow. He placed a gentle hand on his daughter's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. Fleur nodded sharply to him, and he left.

Fleur continued to hold her shaking sister-in-law, rocking back and forth and crooning a lullaby her mother had once sung. Though her breathing was ragged and she clutched at Fleur, never once did the young witch shed a single tear. In the corner, Frederick said "Bok!" and George cried out in delight.

* * *

Lucius Malfoy, ex-pat, ex-millionaire, ex-Death Eater, scowled as he pretended to read the paper. What in blue blazes had his fool son got into his head this time? Narcissa had called on Devant Manor, where Draco and his wife now lived, in the hopes of taking tea with him, and been told that her son was at work. Draco Malfoy, working a nine-to-five job like some common flub! It really was beyond comprehension.

And now, of all times, at that. They boy was still young - not two months passed his twenty-seventh birthday - was married to a pretty, accomplished witch from a noted family, had a six month old son... in short, the boy should be enjoying what blessings they still had in this life, after so much had been taken away from them. Not toiling away in some airless box.

He'd swear, in the past eight years his son had turned into someone he didn't know at all. What it had been, Lucius decided, was Draco's last year at that blasted school. He should have sent the boy away to Durmstrang like he'd wanted, where he'd be surrounded by his own kind instead of muggle-loving fools... or at the very least, where he wouldn't have been among those who so openly hated him. Narcissa had agreed with him, and they'd been all set to sign the paperwork when, unexpectedly, Draco himself had kicked up a fuss. It had been so unusual to see him truly desire something in those days that they'd folded easily, although not without many misgivings. So they'd let him go, and as the months passed there had been nothing in his letters that indicated anything was wrong, but when he came home, Draco had been... different. Lucius didn't trust it.

He rattled his paper, then decided he didn't care what it said and threw it aside. He'd call Monsieur Destrier for a round of golf. Yes, that would do: the world would be a much better place after Lucius soundly trounced his long-time rival.

* * *

**References:**

Post-partum depression: Carla from 'Scrubs' - both the particular symptoms Sabine displays (there's lots, and they vary), and her desire to hide them. Obviously, it's a real disease, and a very severe one, but I admit my knowledge of it is limited to what TV and the internet have told me.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**_  
In which there are inadvisable actions_  
Friday, December 1, 2017

Scorpius woke with frozen feet and an embarrassingly runny nose. If there was any justice in the world, he should have been able to turn over and go back to sleep in a nice warm bed without any noxious bodily fluids marring his sleeping face. But he'd known the moment his father signed his admission papers to Hogwarts that Justice was an imaginary beast, so he wasn't terribly surprised by this latest in a long series of awful injustices. That didn't mean he liked it.

"Get up, you stupid tosser," he snapped, throwing a pillow towards Albus's bed. English was such an ugly language, so when he was in an awful mood - such as he was now - he took great pleasure in swearing in it. In a beautiful tongue such as his native French, even curses had delicacy to them, which made swearing in this barbaric language all the more satisfying.

The pillow rebounded off the thick green drapes, but there was a stirring from behind them. "S'miserable out there," came Albus's plaintive voice. "Dun wanna get up."

It must have been truly wretched outside, for it to be this awful in the dormitory. Spelled blankets and curtains kept off most of the chill, and the boys had stuffed old socks in the worst of the cracks that leaked cold and damp into the room. It only helped a little, and made the dormitory smell of feet, in addition to the already potent stench of dirty laundry, mouldering dungeon, and lake sludge. Scorpius was going to murder the first Hufflepuff he came across - those pathetic little misers ought to be the ones suffering down here.

"If I have to be awake, so do you," Scorpius snapped. Keeping under the blanket as much as possible, he pulled on his robes - yesterday's, but getting fresh ones would mean walking across the freezing stone floor - and both of his cloaks.

"Then go back to bed." Albus's voice reached him through the thick fabric walls of his clothes as he dressed. "Dun see why yer so keen to get up."

There was grumbling from a bed further down the dormitory. "Would the pair of you shut up? S'too early for this shit." Aided by three long months of practice, Scorpius ignored the voice. His roommates were always complaining, and it did nothing to ease Scorpius's imposed exile in this horrible place.

More muttering came from Albus's bed, as the black-haired boy cursed to himself to ease his transition to full wakefulness. "Alright," he said, pulling aside the drapes and glaring at Scorpius reproachfully. "I'm up. There better bloody well be ambrosia for breakfast after this." Scorpius had absolutely no sympathy for his friend. It might be hideous, but at least the enormous green jumper the other boy wore looked warm. Albus had the added advantage of having grown up in an unheated hut in this barbaric and frigid country, so he was probably used to this sort of discomfort. For his part, Scorpius was used to better - much better.

The pair of them hauled themselves - with only as much grumbling as necessary - up towards the Great Hall for breakfast. Near the base of the stairs that would lead them up to the Entrance Hall and thence the delights of breakfast, they met one of those miserable sots that Scorpius currently hated with the entirety of his soul. "Hufflepuff," he snarled at the boy.

The large, sturdily-built boy looked down at him with mild, disinterested puzzlement that was more insulting than any deliberate words could have been. "Oh, it's you two," he said. Scorpius was a little gratified that he was well enough known that a fourth year from a different House would recognize him, but the older boy didn't sound suitably impressed that Scorpius had deigned to speak with him.

"Oi, I know you. You're one of my brother's lackey's." At some point, Scorpius was going to have to teach his friend the fine art of witty repartee, if that was the best the boy could come up with. Sooner or later, Albus was going to have to be introduced to his proper social circle, and Scorpius didn't want to be embarrassed by being associated with someone who couldn't even formulate a decent insult.

The look the older boy gave them was a credible impression of Professor Longbottom's good-natured disdain - a look Scorpius received often enough, whenever he pointed out the plebeian nature of Herbology. Longbottom didn't seem to understand that Scorpius was a Malfoy, and therefore employed gardeners to do that sort of scut work for him. "I thought Jimmy broke Malfoy's nose. How come it's your brain that's scrambled, Potter?" he asked.

It just went to show what sort of House Hufflepuff was, that a fourth year from their ranks kowtowed to a second year Gryffindor - and a miserable one at that. "Ignore the ignorant boor," Scorpius snapped, taking his friend by the elbow and all but dragging him towards the Great Hall. Somehow, his victory failed to be appropriately sweet.

* * *

Neville did not miss being a student at Hogwarts. He loved the school, and was infinitely glad he'd been taken on as a teacher so he could return, but there were many aspects of student life he would rather forget, or at least never repeat. One of those was Potions in the dungeons with Professor Snape. Things were probably better now that Bletchley taught the subject, since the man was only a shallow, whiney little bugger and not a terrifying, cruel bastard, but Neville wouldn't have bet on it. At the advanced and venerable age of thirty-seven, Neville had learned that sometimes the Evil Git was a lesser evil compared to the Stupid Tosser.

Not that he would ever call Professor Bletchley (or the now-venerated Snape) any of those names where his impressionable students could hear. Part of being a Hufflepuff was shutting your mouth and pretending you saw the best in everyone at a time when a Gryffindor would open their stupid trap and start a pointless row. Pomona had made that expressly clear when he'd been given the post of Head of House, and Neville was still sufficiently in awe of his old teacher to take her words as sacred law.

So he would not commiserate with his students over what a stupid prick Bletchley was, however tempting it might be. He would pretend he couldn't hear their grumblings as they filed into the greenhouses - which were warm and comfortable, despite the weather outside - twenty minutes late because Bletchley had another flobberworm up his arse about something. If they became too outspoken against the Potions professor, he would even take points for it - and tempting as it was, he wouldn't give them back for minor accomplishments to make up for it. Instead, he'd get on with teaching his own lesson, because he had enough problems without factoring slimy Potions professors into things.

"Miss Crabbe, I don't care what rights you think it deserves, just transplant it." He held up a hand to forestall the argument that he could see quivering on her indignant lips. "I realize I haven't asked it's opinion, but you're going to have to trust that, as a herbologist, I know that it will be much happier in its new pot."

"It's that sort of paternalistic assumption that has put the wizarding community at odds with all other sentient magical creatures," she retorted, sounding just like he imagined Hermione might have, had his old classmate been born into a Pureblooded wizarding family. As it was, it had taken Hermione until fourth year to truly appreciate the number of injustices there were in the wizarding world, and to take arms against them at every opportunity. It wouldn't surprise Neville in the slightest if, ten years from now, Esme Crabbe faced off against Hermione Granger in a courtroom somewhere - whatever the cause, it would be the trial of the century. _Please Merlin, don't ever let them unite on a cause,_ he thought, not without humour. _The wizarding world wouldn't stand a chance._

"Professor, are you listening?" Crabbe asked suspiciously, drawing Neville back from his thoughts.

"I think I've gone deaf. I might be cured by the time all the Mandrake roots are transplanted," he told her. Had his teachers ever felt like this when dealing with his year? _It was probably even worse._ He resolved to send Professor McGonagall a big box of her favourite shortbread for Christmas in recognition of it.

* * *

Healer Weasley would have had something to say about it, if she'd seen that Draco Malfoy was working through lunch yet again. At some point someone - a secretary or aide, probably, but possibly even his personal assistant - had delivered a deli sandwich as part of an ongoing campaign to prevent him from firing everyone in a fit of hypoglycaemic rage. Draco had taken four bites before a fresh stack of post had arrived; now the sandwich sat forgotten on the corner of his desk, and Ginny wasn't anywhere nearby to remind him to eat it.

With the practice of many years, Draco sorted through the stack of mail. Anything soliciting a donation, ranting against the 'secret Death Eater', or wishing him a Merry Christmas (and hoping to continue to receive his patronage in the new year) was sorted out in one of the company's many mail rooms. What came through to him was a mix of reports, contracts, and updates from his various agents and representatives. And, today, a long and chatty letter from his old school friend Daphne Greengrass, who was currently on a (convenient) vacation in Turkey.

If anyone had ever asked, Draco would have denied that Daphne was one of his agents. No one who went searching through his company or personal records (and he knew there were people who did, just waiting for the day he did something the least bit underhanded) would find anything to suggest that their relationship was not simply that of old school friends who took an interest in each others travels and children.

And yet... Draco allowed himself a small smile as he opened the thick scroll from his old Housemate. Daphne had cunning and wit in spades, but her only ambition was to be a well-known and universally-liked figure in Society. She observed and analyzed every nuance and subtly of her surroundings, but would never dream of gossiping about what it told her. For instance, she would never write and tell Draco that the wife of his Turkish business partner was having an affair with the man's most trusted friend, as Pansy would have done. She might, however, casually mention that she had run into Sevgi and Osman at a truly darling little restaurant, and Sevgi had looked so lovely she was positively glowing.

In this way, Daphne fed Draco the bits of information he needed, and in return Draco helped her forge the connections she so craved for her social network. It was innocent, invaluable, and utterly Slytherin.

Draco reread the passage about Sevgi and Osman again. When he finished, he let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Thank Circe for Daphne: she had latched onto the one piece of information that would save his hide when Volkan Vural decided to double cross Malfoy Enterprises and stab his 'business partner' in the back, something Draco knew was likely to happen sooner rather than later - and no doubt Daphne knew too. The Turkish wizarding community resembled nothing so much as a bunch of criminal cartels, its leaders crime lords and mafia dons. Wizards and witches lived in isolation, knowing only a few others of their kind - they might live next to another wizarding family for decades without the slightest clue. It was, perhaps, what the wizarding community in Britain might have been had Hogwarts never been established. The school gave generation after generation pride and talent in their magical ability, connections with others of their kind, and an environment that taught them that living in secret did not mean living in fear. Turkish wizards had none of these advantages and lived in silence and fear, knowing only what their fathers had before them. It made doing business with the Turkish wizarding community difficult and dangerous, but also very rewarding. So when Daphne had mentioned she was planning a trip abroad, Draco had naturally suggested Turkey, and offered some of his connections there to make her trip as pleasant and comfortable as possible. Daphne had met and made friends with important Turkish wizards, and Draco had a lifeline for his company. Once again, Draco was going to come out on top, and smelling like a rose.

Feeling considerably more cheerful than he had only a few minutes before, Draco turned his attention to the rest of his mail, leaving his still-forgotten sandwich to go stale on the corner of his desk.

* * *

The stunningly complex array of wires and nobbly bits was winning the staring contest that Fred had resorted to as he tried to get this stupid machine to give up its secrets. It was such a deceptively simple thing, at least to hear Hermione tell it: ups and downs on the silver disk turned the sound on and off, and the result was music. Glaring at the infernal contraption on his workbench (once his desk, but it had been a long time since the surface had seen a textbook) Fred was rapidly coming to the conclusion that despite her know-it-all attitude, Hermione didn't actually understand how the thing worked.

It was frustrating, was what it was. This stupid muggle box had to be at least fifteen years old, but it could still do something magic couldn't. Or, rather, it could have, if Fred had managed a retrofit to make it run on magic. But unlike a car, which really only needed magic to make wheels spin or stop, electronics were proving to be tricky. The biggest problem was that they were delicate, which meant you couldn't kick them when you got frustrated (something which Fred firmly believed always helped matters along).

_Stupid magic_, Fred thought grumpily. Muggles these days had machines that did things wizards could never dream of, and here he was stuck working by torchlight. It was so insufferably archaic. Just because it was good enough for someone's great-to-the-upteenth-degree grandfather did_not _mean it was good enough for the wizards of today, as far as Fred was concerned. There were so many possibilities out there, but even the muggle-borns, who came from a world of instant entertainment and readily-accessible information, got their heads so filled with dusty old magic that they forgot about the potential of technology. Wizards were still riding brooms, for Merlin's sake! They hadn't even advanced to mops, let alone vacuum cleaners, when they should all be racing around on flying motorcycles.

Sirius Black had been a great man to make something like that, in Fred's opinion. But while he'd had creativity and genius, he'd lacked true vision. One flying motorcycle was great for a single rebellious young wizard; ten thousand magical CD players could turn a profit that would make every goblin in Gringotts keel over in awe. It could even be a reality, if only he could get this dratted thing to give off more than static and the occasional spark.

He couldn't even ask George for help. George had always been the botanist and potioneer, while Fred had been the one who did the complex wand work. _Then again... _maybe that was the answer. Electricity didn't just come from wall sockets: it also came from batteries. And what were batteries but a bunch of chemicals mixed together, just like a potion? They were simple enough to duplicate with even a first year's potion kit, although they just sat like useless lumps at Hogwarts, where electricity didn't work. _But if some other form of power could be generated... _a brilliant, excited grin spread across Fred's face as he hopped from his chair. Nothing promised progress like dangerous magical substances.

* * *

"You're home early, Mum."

_Whatever happened to 'Mummy'? _Hermione wondered as she watched her son drop his book bag on the table and start rummaging for an after-school snack. She didn't have much time to spend with her son these days, it was true, but surely it hadn't been so long that he'd grown up without her noticing. She was probably making something out of nothing; he was still her cute little boy with his sticking up red hair, not even old enough to go to Hogwarts.

"Hi, Aunt 'Mione." Lily was looking up at her questioningly with those big brown eyes - Ginny's eyes, as they had once been. "Are Mum and Grandmum out?" Hermione pushed down the small part of herself that demanded to know why they weren't happier to see her - they were just children, after all, and wrapped up in their own little worlds as all children were. It stood to reason that their main concern would be a change in their normal routine.

"Ginny's running an errand, and your grandmum is having nap." She immediately felt bad about lying to them, even though it was a white lie. They'd tell the children the truth at supper, but for now she wanted to pretend that everything was as it should be. Was it so wrong to want a little precious time with her son and niece before things changed irrevocably for all of them? _Of course not,_ she assured herself. "I can make you something if you like, Hugo."

"It's alright, Mum," he said, his head emerging from the pantry. "Aunt Ginny left us a snack. She always does when she goes out." In his hands he held the tin lunchbox Harry had used every day before he married Ginny. It had always contained a simple sandwich - just cheese and deli meat on two ragged slices of bread - a bottle of water, and some dubious-looking piece of fruit which clearly said Harry knew nothing about picking produce.

There was nothing to be gained from dwelling on the past, though. Hermione still had the here-and-now to contend with, and her time with the children wasn't going quite the way she had expected. "What did you learn in school today?" There was no way they could shoot that question down - after all, they had to have learned _something._

"Not much," Hugo said absently, his main attention on dividing the loot from the lunchbox between himself and Lily. As though sensing that his mother expected more, he added, "I think we did some maths or something."

Lily giggled. "Tell Aunt 'Mione about Piggles and the frogs," she ordered her cousin. Hugo suddenly seemed very interested in his toast soldiers - it was a classic Ron-style attempt at dodging a topic that he knew she would disapprove of. But Lily continued on blithely. "There's this kid in our class named Tom Miggle - only everyone calls him 'Piggles' because he's really fat and he's got a gigantic nose, you've never seen anything this big, Aunt 'Mione - and anyway at lunch today there were all these frogs out in the field. All hopping in a line, just like magic - only I promise it wasn't, Aunt 'Mione, I didn't do nothing and neither did Hugo. So Piggles turns kind of green and stumbles back, 'cause he's scared of frogs and all. And it sort of looked like he was hopping, and... you're not laughing, Aunt 'Mione," Lily stopped at last, Hermione's silence and Hugo's attempts to disappear finally registering.

A part of Hermione desperately wanted to go flying off and find this Tom Miggle's mother and apologize for all the names that Lily and Hugo had no doubt called the boy, but most of her was just quietly horrified that these were children she had helped raise. She had never done anything that would indicate to any of the children that this sort of petty cruelty was acceptable. Laughing at someone else's misfortune like that...

Unbidden, an image of a white ferret, squealing in fear as it bounced high above the Entrance Hall, rose in her mind. At the time, she'd deplored the false Moody's teaching methods as dangerous and irresponsible of a teacher, but a small part of her had revelled in Malfoy's humiliation. That scene had been like water to Harry and Ron, who had laughed about it for years afterwards.

So maybe, Hermione thought, it wasn't something to get too upset about after all. Hugo and Lily were Ron and Harry's children, after all, and no one had been hurt, so maybe it was alright. Hugo was still watching her cautiously, as though waiting for her to grow an extra head and start breathing flame. What could she say to reassure him? "It sounds like an exciting day," she tried, making her voice as light and nonchalant as possible. Hugo nodded.

"See?" Lily said to him. "I told you she'd think it was funny. Grandmum's the only one who gets mad about that sort of thing."

Feeling pleased that she had, at last, managed to connect with the children, Hermione let the glow of having done a good job of mothering carry her through their groans when she asked about their homework.

* * *

With his glasses off and his scar covered with a bit of Lucretia's Luscious Concealer, Harry Potter passed through crowds of witches and wizards without anyone giving him a second glance. It just went to show, Ginny thought, how so many people saw only The Boy Who Lived when they looked at him, and not _Harry._ Just-plain-Harry was an innocuous man with messy hair - no one even paid enough attention to him to notice his pretty eyes.

It helped that most of the witches and wizards in Saint Mungo's - whether Healers, patients, or concerned relatives - were too wrapped up in their own lives to take much notice of anyone else. It shouldn't have been possible to smuggle the most famous man in the wizarding world into Saint Mungo's with no one the wiser, but Ginny had done just that - and without even using magic.

The pair of them were perhaps too anonymous, Ginny thought in annoyance as she glared at the young Healer in her path. They'd made it all the way to the fourth floor and half way down the corridor to Healer Kontapopolous's office before the woman - who looked like she'd only got her Healer's certificate a week ago - had stopped them and demanded to know what they thought they were doing, wandering around the Healers' private offices.

"This isn't a place for the public," the young woman said, giving Ginny a severe look over her glasses. She clutched a pair of textbooks to her chest. In all, Ginny thought, she looked like a young Healer who had had her authority and competence questioned one time too many in the past week. At any other time, she might have felt sympathy for the girl, but right now this confrontation was wearing on her patience.

"We're here to see Healer Kontapopolous," Ginny told her for what felt like the hundredth time, but was probably only the fourth.

"If you have an appointment, he will see you in the clinic. If you_ don't _have an appointment," which, by her tone, she suspected was the case, "then you'll have to come back after you've made one."

In the years since she'd retired as a Healer, Ginny had forgotten what a frustrating and bureaucratic place Saint Mungo's was. She'd treated all her families illnesses and injuries herself, so there had been no need to set foot through the hospital's floo fireplace since that time. If only that were still an option. Fed up with trying to reason with the young woman - who would hopefully learn someday soon that there were times when you just had to step aside gracefully - Ginny snapped. "On the day Jake Kontapopolous no longer needs to refer to the textbook_ I wrote, _you can talk to me about appointments," she declared with a pointed look at the red book in the young woman's arms. "Until then, I will walk in and disrupt my student's day any time I damn well please."

She took Harry's arm and marched past the startled Healer towards Healer Kontapopolous's office. Unresisting, Harry followed her, wearing the same vacant and slightly-bemused expression he'd worn since yesterday morning.

A bit further along the corridor, a door opened, and Jake Kontapopolous poked his head out. "Helen, what's all the noise about?"

"Sir, this woman..." the young Healer began.

Without bothering to listen, Kontapopolous glanced at Harry, then turned to Ginny. "There's nothing to be alarmed about, madam, he's just sedated," he told her complacently. "You can take him along to the clinic in the north-east wing, and they'll sort him out."

"Of course he's sedated, you twit," Ginny snapped. "I did it myself."

Kontapopolous's eyes widened. "You..." Suddenly, like a light flicking on, that once-familiar tone registered and he recognised her. "Healer Weasley! I... I..."

"'I'm sorry,' is generally a good start, Jake," she drawled. "And next time, listen when your junior Healers try to tell you something. They get enough flak from the general populace; they don't need you disrespecting them too."

Although he was a few years older than her, Kontapopolous looked like a little boy who had just been scolded by his mother. "I'm sorry, Healer Weasley, Helen." In the corner of her vision, Ginny saw Helen's eyes go very wide. Knowing Jake Kontapopolous as she did, Ginny was sure this was the first time the young witch had seen him acting humble. "Ah... would you like to come in and sit down?"

"Thank you."

"Helen, you were on your way to see Mr. Baxter, weren't you?" Jake added, clearly dismissing the young Healer.

She blushed a bit red. "Ah, yes... ah... Healer Weasley... I'm very sorry, and it was very nice to meet you, and... umm..." Shyly, she held the red book out to Ginny. "Would you mind terribly... I've always really admired... that is..."

Smiling, and both pleased and a bit embarrassed at Helen's obvious admiration of her work, Ginny took the proffered book and quill. She signed the inside cover with,_ Helen, have confidence in yourself and your abilities -Ginevra Weasley. _It was a bit corny, but Helen seemed like a sweet - if rather harassed - young woman, and it was probably the sort of thing she'd appreciate.

"There you are," she said, handing the book back. "Don't worry about earlier - I know you were just trying to do your job."

"Thank you, Healer Weasley," Helen said, flushing, and scurried off towards the patient wards.

Ginny turned back to Healer Kontapopolous. "Let's go inside, Jake. I think you can guess what I'm here about, and you'll know why I want to keep it as quiet as possible."

With a pointed look at Harry, who was still standing docilely to the side, Jake nodded. "Of course, Healer Weasley."

* * *

**References:**

Flying vacuum cleaners: Sabrina the Teenage Witch


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**_  
In which there is reminiscing as life moves on_  
Saturday, December 2, 2017

By seven in the morning there was a mob outside the Burrow. Reporters and 'concerned citizens' jostled for position outside the ground floor doors and windows, their numbers swelled by all those people with nothing better to do on an early Saturday morning than see what all the fuss was about. Ginny wasn't surprised to see them. In fact, the only surprise was that they hadn't been here last night. She must have looked like she'd developed a twitch at supper last night, that was how often she glanced outside, expecting to see concerned Harry Potter fans.

She poured herself a cup of tea in the kitchen and went back to her room on the second floor. Extra security measures had been taken in this room, to make the windows invisible from outside, ever since the layout of the Burrow had been leaked to the public. Why everyone was so desperate to invade the Potters' personal lives was beyond Ginny, but it had been a fact of life for as long as she'd known Harry. She watched them through the windows as they pushed close to the walls, talking excitedly. Good thing it was Saturday, so Hugo and Lily wouldn't have to find their way through that mob to go to school.

There was a soft tap on the open door behind her. "Ginny?" Arthur entered hesitantly. He and George were the only ones in the family still speaking to her, although she'd gotten an owl from Fleur last night - likely in response to a frantic one Hermione had sent them - saying that she and Bill supported Ginny.

"Morning, Dad." Though their financial situation had improved greatly over the years, Arthur was still as carefully thrifty as ever, squeezing as much life out of things as possible. Even so, his burgundy housecoat should have been replaced years ago, after it lost its cuffs. Arthur insisted he liked it anyway, and that the new one Ron and Hermione had given him last Christmas wasn't as comfortable. It clashed horribly with his thin, still gingery hair, just as it always had - Ginny found the familiar lack of colour-coordination comforting.

He joined her at the window. "What are you going to do about them?" he asked, looking down at the crowd. Hermione was adamantly outspoken in her disapproval of what Ginny had done, but at least she wasn't outside talking to the mob about it (yet). Which was as it should be, to Ginny's mind. She'd made it clear at supper last night - they might not be talking to her, but they could still hear her just fine - that this was the business of the Potter family, and while she loved and respected them all, they could butt out.

"I'll go out and talk to them in a little bit," Ginny said. "And then... bugger. I was supposed to take Jimmy to get a new wand today. Looks like I have to send an owl first."

* * *

Draco arrived at Hogwarts half way through a bustling, high-tension breakfast. There was a great deal of shouting and general excitement, and seven students at each the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables looked extremely on-edge. As his damned luck would have it, he'd arrived in time for the annual clash of the Lion and the Snake on the Quidditch pitch.

"Couldn't stay away, could you?" Longbottom said amiably, Summoning a chain for Draco. He indicated a serving platter with his fork. "Do try the quiche. It's really improved since our day."

Bletchley looked at him sourly over a mug of thick, sludge-like coffee. "What're you doing back here?"

"Oh, yes," Draco said dismissively, taking a bite of the quiche and finding that it was exactly as Longbottom had said. "Doing a bit of a favour for a friend. Ginny won't be able to make it today, Pomona - something unfortunate's come up - so I'll be taking James Potter to get a new wand."

Beside him, Longbottom choked on his quiche. Draco pounded the other man on the back, feeling an echo of the old thrill he had once gotten from picking on the chubby boy. Getting along with Longbottom was no reason for him to stop making sport of his old classmate; in fact, now he could do it in better conscience, and he would dearly love to see if he could make pumpkin juice come out of Longbottom's nose by the end of the meal. "Ginny asked you to take James shopping? No offence, mate," he added, taking a gulp of pumpkin juice, "but you aren't exactly the first that comes to mind." What a strange feeling it was, to be addressed so familiarly by Longbottom, especially when, by rights, the man ought to have been more hostile than Bletchley. Not that Draco would dream of questioning the forgiveness he had somehow been given - but neither was he going to take it for granted.

"He's got all those relatives, after all," Towler put in from Longbottom's other side, completely ignorant of the fact that he hadn't been invited into this conversation.

"I'm quite aware of that - pass the tea, thank you, Pomona - but I'm sure she had her reasons." He didn't elaborate. No doubt it would be all over the Prophet tomorrow anyway, and though Ginny hadn't exactly asked him not to talk about what was going on, well, they all knew better than to talk about Harry.

"You'll have to wait until after the game, Governor Malfoy," Pomona said. She was eating a scone smothered in so much butter and cream most women would have fainted at the thought, and seemed to be enjoying it immensely. "James is on the team."

Of course he was. "Call me Draco, please, Pomona," he said mildly. "Or I shall have to start calling you Madame Headmistress." She chuckled a bit at that, and Draco grinned to himself. Malfoys might be evil, conniving bastards, but damn if couldn't they be charming when they wanted. And Draco, with all the practice he'd had in the years following the War, was the best of them all. Still, it would be nice to think that some day he might be able to say things like that without the ulterior motive of making his life easier in a Malfoy-hating society.

"Come watch," Longbottom invited him. "It'll be just like old times."

There were a lot of things Draco could have said to_ that_, most of them involving how unpleasant 'old times' had been. "A bunch of Slytherins will show up dressed as Dementors then, will they?" At the time, it had seemed fiendishly clever, and the punishment he'd received for that prank had seemed unduly harsh. On the whole of things, though, it was one of the lighter memories of Quidditch at Hogwarts.

Longbottom snickered appreciatively - not something he would have done twenty years ago. "I'd forgotten about that."

"Don't you have business or something?" Bletchley asked, inexplicably hostile.

Longbottom waved the sausage serving tongs at him in mock severity. "It's Saturday, Miles. Even Malfoy has to rest once a month."

"Hogwarts is business," Draco said mildly, "since I'm on the Board." The hidden threat went right over the heads of all the poor, straight-forward Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, but a Pureblood Slytherin like Bletchley well understood the implications. _That's right, bastard. You're out on your arse if I say the word._ He took another bite of the quiche. The house elves really had improved their recipe.

"I think it's wonderful that Draco's spending so much time visiting," Pomona put in. "Most of the governors haven't been here since their own school days."

"They're out of touch, you mean," said Towler, with an edge of accusation - although whether is was directed at the Board or Pomona, Draco couldn't be certain. There must have been a law somewhere against being as dense as this man, Draco thought. Who insults the people who sign his paycheque where they can hear? The man was uncommonly stupid, even for a Gryffindor.

"Then it's good that Malfoy's taking an interest," Longbottom said with finality. _Where was that spine when we were at Hogwarts? _Draco wondered. He was glad the man had found it, though: it made him bearable company.

* * *

"Ah! Is that your father, Scorpius?" Gabrielle didn't wait for an answer, but went on anyway. "I see him, and I think, 'yes, that is a man with veela blood,' and so of course I know I am right. He is too pretty, otherwise."

Fabian reached over and smacked her lightly on the head. "You sound like Mum. Someone will misunderstand you." Gabrielle glared at him reproachfully.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." He sighed, and was about to try and answer her ridiculous question anyway, when something caught his eye. "Grif, you're wearing your robes backwards again." On his other side, he was aware of Albus and Scorpius staring in shock, and even Gabby seemed a little put out.

Griflet glanced at him, a mild, disinterested look in his eye. "They work just as well this way," he said. The problem with Griflet, Fabian thought as he coaxed the boy from his seat so the robes could be righted, was that in some ways he actually made sense. Robes were there to keep you covered and warm, and if that was all you cared about, what did it matter how they were worn? Somehow, he didn't think the first years would appreciate the logic.

"What's your dad doing back here again?" Albus asked.

"I don't know," the blond boy answered, in a tone that added 'but I wish he would go away'.

"Perhaps he's here to watch the game," Griflet said, and Fabian nearly fell over in shock. A comment like that was far too_ present _for Griflet: he not only knew what day it was, but what was happening. It reminded Fabian that his classmate probably was as brilliant as his grades suggested (except Potions, where you had to keep track of time), and the only reason he seemed like such an oddball was because he couldn't be bothered with the day-to-day humdrum of life. "Governor Malfoy played Seeker for Slytherin for five years."

"And my dad beat him every time," Albus said proudly. "Sorry, Scorpius," he added guiltily. The other boy - obviously not caring about the slight on his father - waved it away.

Griflet made a dismissive sound. "While that's true, I don't think it's proper indication of either player." Deep in those mild eyes, Fabian saw a flicker of something unbelievably sharp watching them all and storing away their reactions, although Griflet was probably unaware of it himself. "If you review the recordings of the play-by-play commentary - factoring in Mr. Jordan's obvious bias - and what visual records remain, it's likely Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were roughly equal in terms of skill. The deciding factor seems to have been luck more often than not."

A theory like that could have been pure guess work. There were records of old Quidditch games, but they were full of holes and tended to ignore the Seekers. On the other hand, it was Griflet, and somehow... somehow, Fabian knew, Griflet was probably right. The main puzzle was why Griflet had bothered: as far as Fabian knew, the only thing that interested Griflet was the War, and school Quidditch games had nothing to do with that. Right?

Albus was glaring. "Yeah right."

Griflet shrugged. "His play against Wendelin the Weird..." he began, and Fabian knew he was doing it on purpose. He wondered if he would ever understand what went on in his friend's head._ Probably not._

* * *

Draco was discovering many things about Hogwarts he'd never known as a student - and he'd known a lot. Just a few minutes ago, for instance, he'd learned that while the benches in the Teacher's Box looked just like all the others in the stands, someone with a great talent for Cushioning Charms had had a go at them. His armchair at home probably wasn't this comfortable. Really, it was no wonder the teachers so rarely stood up to cheer during games, and were so slow to leave at the end. As a student, Draco had thought it was all caused by creaky knees among the venerable faculty.

He and Longbottom had taken seats behind Towler and Bletchley, who were always relegated to the front row because of their tendency to jump up and down and scream. After Towler had tripped over Professor Catchlove and taken a nosedive over the rail some years back, Longbottom explained, the two had been given their own area where at least they couldn't hurt anyone but themselves. A small part of Draco's brain found itself thinking that Longbottom would make a good Headmaster one day, and was shocked at itself.

Out on the pitch it was the usual mix of talents Draco remembered from his days as a student. Some of the players were excellent; some looked like they'd never sat on a broom before. Overall, the two teams were fairly evenly matched. Slytherin - which still, despite everything, seemed to have a high concentration of Purebloods - obviously had a wider pool to draw on than Gryffindor, which tried to teach naturally athletic muggle-borns to play from scratch. On the other hand, Gryffindor had fielded a (blonde) Weasley and a Potter. "And there's two more Weasleys slated to join next year," Longbottom had added. "If Rosie ever gets her nose out of a book and deigns to play."

Draco's first reaction to the idea that Weasleys - and Potters - were given automatic places on the team had been anger such as he'd rarely experienced since he'd left Hogwarts and no longer had to see the Golden Trio's stupid faces every day. Watching Gryffindor's captain - Victoire Weasley, Longbottom had called her, reminding Draco that Fleur had inexplicably married into the redheaded brood - lead her Chasers across the pitch, Draco reconsidered.

"I've visited the Burrow over the summer a few times," Longbottom was saying. "They have scrimmage games in the back field a lot." Draco wasn't sure it qualified as a scrimmage when you had enough relatives to field two full teams, but there it was. What other children could have only at special Quidditch camps the Weasleys had in their own garden. No wonder so many of them made the team. "Harry doesn't play anymore, of course, but... oh!"

Oh was right, Draco thought. Jimmy Potter had just dodged a Bludger by executing a barrel roll that would have had fans at a World Cup match screaming, and he'd apparently done it without thought. Most of the students seemed to have missed the significance but there were some who, like Longbottom, still hadn't closed mouths that had dropped open in shock. Up until now the boy's flying had been mediocre, and it continued to be so after. _But that roll... _Now that he was watching, Draco could spot the tells that said the boy wasn't flying anywhere near his ability. He hadn't spotted the Snitch yet, and he was bored.

"Is this Gryffindor's first game?" he asked.

Longbottom nodded. "But I'm sure we would have heard if they were trying to keep talent like that quiet. Rumour has it the only thing that got Potter a spot on the team was a bit of nepotism."

"Apparently rumour is wrong," Draco said absently - he was busy watching Jimmy fly. His style seemed to be somewhere between Draco's own technically precise style and Potty's unrefined natural brilliance. There was no hesitation, but neither did he take some of the more ridiculous risks that Harry had never even realized he took. The boy was exceptional and Draco suspected that, if he bothered flying the way he probably could, every professional team in the country would be scrambling to sign him, even before he left school.

There was an outcry from the crowd: the Snitch had been spotted. The Slytherin Seeker took off after it instantly, lying nearly flat on his broom for speed. Jimmy kept up his slow circling - had he not spotted it? - and then his broom suddenly jumped and he was streaking upwards as quickly as his opponent, despite his relaxed posture.

Draco frowned. His eyes - still Seeker-sharp despite his not having played in years - spotted a slight lag in the Gryffindor boy's broom. Why would such a talented flyer be on an old broom? It wasn't as though the Potters were so destitute that they couldn't afford to give him a decent one. As the boy blazed past, within ten feet of the Teacher's Box, Draco's eye caught the name on the handle; the Nimbus Blaze 10GX had only come out a couple of years ago, and even a neglected broom shouldn't have deteriorated that fast. Had the boy in fact worn out a top-of-the-line racing broom? It scarcely seemed possible.

Jimmy's fingers closed around the Snitch a half second before the Slytherin Seeker's. He knocked the other boy's hand away and raised the Snitch triumphantly. The crowd exploded. "Little bastard did that to make it more dramatic." It was only when Longbottom glanced sharply at him that he realized he'd spoken out loud.

"I wondered," the other man admittedly quietly. "But I don't have your eyes, so I couldn't be sure."

"Does he do that sort of thing a lot?" Draco asked. That was the sort of overblown arrogance that made a boy make fun of a hippogriff, and got him mauled for it. He wondered if Ginny knew what a dangerous path her son was headed down.

Longbottom snorted. "Not that anyone can prove. Have fun taking him to get his wand."

_Yes, _Draco thought._ I think I will. _

* * *

"Are you sure my mother's alright?" James asked for the third time since they'd flooed to the Leaky Cauldron. Mr. Malfoy had no reason to lie to him, at least not that he could see, but James was used to adults lying for no reason, especially when it came to his mother. They seemed to think he wouldn't notice.

Mr. Malfoy was bearing it with remarkable patience. "That's what her owl said, and I trust Ginny to know what she's doing. She said she'd be coming to Hogwarts for supper, so you can check on her then." His wand moved across the bricks in the garden wall with the ease of long familiarity, and the archway to Diagon Alley opened for them.

"She also said she was going to take me shopping." The words slipped out before James could stop them, and sounded whiney and petulant even to his own ears. Dammit. He didn't want to sound like a stupid brat in front of Mr. Malfoy who, despite seeming like a fairly decent bloke, was still Scorpius Malfoy's father.

"I'm sure she would have come if she could," Mr. Malfoy said mildly. James was shocked that it wasn't just platitude: the man genuinely seemed to believe it. It was... nice, to think that there was someone who seemed to understand his mother in a way that none of his relatives ever seemed to. It almost made him able to forgive the man for fathering that stupid ponce Malfoy. "What did you think of your first Quidditch game?"

Momentarily thrown by the shift in the conversation, James scrambled to figure out what the man was driving at. Mr. Malfoy had the look of someone with impeccable manners, so it might just be small talk, but he also seemed like the sort of person who had at least two reasons for everything he did. The problem was, James couldn't figure out what they were. "It was interesting," he offered.

"Meaning you were bored out of your mind." James recognized the drawl in the man's voice: it was one that Malfoy used when he was trying to be insulting. Something fell into place in James's mind: Scorpius thought his father was a boor, so he unconsciously mimicked him when he was trying to be rude. But, as ever, the younger Malfoy seemed to have missed the mark entirely.

"Maybe?" He'd always thought Professor Longbottom was perceptive - for a teacher - but Mr. Malfoy made him seem like a blind troll in comparison. James was starting to see, a little bit, how his mother could be friends with the man: he and Ginny were remarkably alike. Maybe that was why it didn't feel awkward to be walking along the slushy cobbles of Diagon Alley with the man, even though they'd only just met. James noticed that people seemed to be watching them walk by with rather more interest than should have been given to a man walking through Diagon Alley with a boy - who was small enough to be mistaken for ten, and therefore not Hogwarts-aged - on a Saturday.

"Do you practice flying a lot?" It seemed like an innocent question, but some extra sense made James look up and meet Mr. Malfoy's eyes. James would have bet every galleon he had the man already knew the answer - but how? - and was digging for something.

"Yes," he answered. There was silence as Mr. Malfoy obviously waited for more information, so James added, "I spend most of my time at home flying in the back field."

No one - absolutely no one - no matter how quick they were, could have said "I see" with quite the inflection Mr. Malfoy did if they didn't know about Harry Potter. Which made no sense to James: besides their family, only a few close friends like Professor Longbottom knew. And despite the mounting evidence that Mr. Malfoy was a close friend of Ginny's, James had never met the man before; before Scorpius had arrived at the beginning of this year, the only indication that the Malfoy family even existed was an un-remarked-upon portrait of a blond boy in his mother's Leaver's Book.

"You know about it, then," he said.

Mr. Malfoy might have sighed, or it might have been James's imagination. "Your mother mentioned how things stood between you and Potter." James wondered if Mr. Malfoy had had a hand in raising his son at all - except for the misplaced mimic of the man's drawl, Scorpius wasn't like his father at all.

"It's not his fault," James said quietly. "I'm sure he loves me, deep down. I just seem to make things worse for some reason." It wasn't his fault, whatever Aunt Hermione said. But then, James suspected Aunt Hermione blamed other people so that she wouldn't feel guilty herself; according to Griflet, the woman had done a lot of things during the War that she had probably come to regret later, although they had probably been the best option at the time.

Mr. Malfoy didn't answer, and James appreciated that the man didn't feel the need to say anything. There wasn't much he could say that wouldn't ring false, anyway.

* * *

Arthur watched the pair walk the past shop window, the words of the apothecary behind him falling on deaf ears. Ginny had said she would find someone to take James for a new wand, but never had he imagined it would be Draco Malfoy. For one thing, he couldn't fathom how on earth Ginny would have known the man. Well, obviously they'd been at school together - there was no avoiding the history there - but that association implied they had been keeping in touch, and that was quite impossible.

Still, perhaps it wasn't a bad thing. His grandson had looked, not _happy _- never happy, it seemed, the boy was far to sombre for it - but relaxed, which was not a face he wore often at the Burrow.

He finally registered what the apothecary was saying. "... fine, upstanding business man, is Mr. Malfoy. Very polite, too. And don't he look just a picture with his son?" Arthur did a double take, then relaxed. No, he had not been mistaken: it was indeed James Potter walking beside Malfoy, his Hogwarts cloak not looking at all out of place next to Malfoy's severe black cloak. Their hair glowed in the sunlight: one brass, one white-gold. It was easy to see how James might be mistaken for Malfoy's son - what was his name again? It had been in Albus's last letter... Scorpius, that was it.

He turned back to the counter and continued his shopping. If the woman wanted to think that was Malfoy and his son, Arthur wasn't about to correct her: James Potter meeting with Draco Malfoy would be news indeed, and the family already had enough to deal with.

* * *

Draco had always hated visiting Ollivander's. The old man with his strange eyes and stranger way of staring was discomfiting, and the dust in the shop made his nose itch. He'd heard that in the last few years Ollivander had brought his nephew in to start running the shop; he'd also heard that the nephew was just as disconcerting as Ollivander himself. The little bell over the door tinkled when they stepped in out of the snow. Jimmy blew on his hands to warm himself - he seemed to have forgotten about the gloves sticking out of his pockets at some point.

A thin, fussy-looking man came out of the back to greet them. "Ah, Mr. Malfoy..." In just those three words, the new shopkeeper confirmed all the unflattering rumours. How unfortunate that his uncle made the best wands in England, or Draco would have gone elsewhere in a heartbeat. "Eleven inches, yew and unicorn hair, wasn't it? Supple. A fine wand. What can I help you with today?"

He'd reached the counter now, and spotted Jimmy, who was still warming his fingers. Draco would have to remind the boy to put his gloves on before they left. Ginny would be cross with him if he returned her son minus a finger or two, although she could probably reattach them without too much trouble.

"And Mr. Potter..." No doubt their joint visit would be the subject of much discussion and rumour-mongering. Draco resisted the urge to hex the odious little man on principle. "Mahogany and dragon heart-string, wasn't it? Swishy. Twelve inches."

Jimmy sneered at him, and Draco was shocked to see that it was really quite a passable sneer; he must have learned it from his mother. "Eleven and three-quarters. And broken, now." He added a belated, "Mr. Ollivander," as though that made it politer.

"Oh," said Ollivander Jr., sounding for a moment as though he were mourning a lost child. "How?"

"In a fight." The boy sounded obnoxiously pleased about it. Not, Draco thought as he studied the boy, because he took pride in being in a fight - only certain childhood acquaintances of Draco's were that stupid - but because he seemed to know it would pain Ollivander. Indeed, the look of distress that flitted across the shopkeeper's face was nearly heart-warming. He wished, just for a second, that his son had been like this boy, and then ruthlessly crushed the thought.

Ollivander was pulled out his tape measure and set to work, muttering and jotting notes on a small pad of paper. Then he set to finding a new wand for Jimmy. He wasn't half so efficient at it as his uncle had been, Draco thought, as the pile of wands that didn't work grew from five, to twelve, to twenty. At one point the dust raised by moving the boxes became so bad that Jimmy fell into a sneezing fit. Unfortunately, he was holding a wand at the time, and Ollivander would have a time trying to fix the hole that had been blasted in the counter. Draco's nose twinged in sympathy.

At last Ollivander produced a small wooden box so covered in dust it looked like stone. The card boxes that held the other wands were moved aside to give this one a place of honour. "I can't think what else to try," Ollivander said. "This is one of the ones my grandfather made - they tend to be well suited to the _difficult_ ones. Hawthorn and phoenix feather. Ten inches. Supple," he added proudly.

Jimmy picked it up and eyed it dubiously. "It's rather short, isn't it?" he asked.

Draco bit back a chuckle. He was at that age, was he? He remembered the difficult time he'd had. "My first wand was ten inches," he said. "Hawthorn and unicorn hair."

"That's quite a change from your current one," Jimmy remarked, producing a stream of lavender stars with a disinterested flick of his wrist.

"I was quite a different person," was all Draco said. He had no idea if it actually made a difference, but it might. There were some people who believed you could tell a person's personality based on their wand - of course, they also believed they could see the future in tea leaves.

Jimmy made a short protest when Draco paid for the wand, which was finally quashed with, "I made arrangements with your mother." He'd done no such thing, of course - he suspected Ginny had a bit too much to deal with just now for the matter to have even crossed her mind - but fourteen galleons would hardly break the bank for the richest wizard in England. Besides, twice now this boy had caused him to leave his work to visit Hogwarts, and to have cause to talk to Ginny. Fourteen galleons was a small price to pay.

* * *

Fred stood in the corridor in the fifth floor's East Wing, staring at a small, cordoned-off section. There was, inexplicably, a swamp there. Student legend said it was a result of a great battle fought by a pair of students against a Dark witch. She'd been swallowed up by the swamp, so the rumour said, but the students had never been seen again. It had been here as long as any of the students could remember, and word was that even the Headmistress couldn't remove it.

Most of the students had learned where it was and avoided it naturally, just as they did the trick stairs. There was another - slightly more believable - rumour that said anything that got stuck in the swamp would reek for weeks, and that nothing could get rid of the stench. One of the Hufflepuff first years had blundered into it back in October, and the boy still smelled a bit like marsh gas. Most people gave the place a wide berth, but Fred liked it.

He'd grown up hearing stories about Dolores Umbridge, her educational edicts, and the persecution of his family at her hands. But they were just stories; tales of things that had happened long before he was born. So why did he know how the swamp would have looked from the air, back when it filled the corridor? If he closed his eyes, he could see himself flying away from a crowd of cheering students, their faces unknown but familiar. Clanking chains and bits of mortar hung from his broom - the stories never mentioned _them _- and a small, toad-like woman was screaming at him. As he always did when these memories took him, Fred found himself grinning.

The realization sobered him quickly. These weren't memories, but simple daydreams. Shaking his head, he headed back to Gryffindor to await Ginny's arrival. There were some things that couldn't be explained, and some things he hoped never would be, and these daydreams fell firmly into the second category.

* * *

**References:**

Crowd outside the Burrow: Ankh-Morpork's crowds, as described by Terry Pratchett

_Yes, I know it doesn't look like I'm stealing much of anything. But I still feel the need to credit, for inspiration's sake if nothing else._


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**_  
In which nefarious plots have varying degrees of success_  
Saturday, November 28, 1998

Draco walked into the Great Hall half way through a bustling, high-tension breakfast. There was a great deal of shouting and general excitement, and seven students at each the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables looked extremely on-edge. As his damned luck would have it, it looked like he was going to have to witness the annual clash of the Lion and the Snake on the Quidditch pitch. And this year, he wasn't going to be allowed to participate.

He picked a seat at the Slytherin table at random and dropped into it, loading toast onto his plate as he ignored the other students around him with practiced ease. The Prince of Slytherin might have suffered a fall from grace, his House had learned over the past three months, but he was still a prince, and all but the bravest or most foolhardy (a rare breed in Slytherin, unlike Gryffindor, but still there) avoided antagonizing him unnecessarily. Not being able to retaliate openly for fear of extreme reprisal from the school meant Draco had become very, very good at getting revenge in other ways.

"Morning, Malfoy." That cheerful, hated voice could only belong to one red-haired menace.

Draco didn't look up from fastidiously buttering his toast. "Weasel."

"Not playing today? That's too bad."

Against his will, Draco found himself looking up and levelling a very annoyed glare at the Weasel. Obviously, the stupid bastard was too dense to realize that an exception had been made for him and Potty, whereas the rules still applied to Draco. Of course he wouldn't notice - the stupid blighter had always thought he was above the rules, same as Scarhead.

"Ron, what are you doing?" Another red-haired menace had arrived on the scene. She glared at both the boys equally, then grabbed her brother's arm and tried to drag him away. "You_ know_ McGonagall won't like it if you try lording it over Malfoy."

The mountain of red-haired troll wasn't moving, despite his sister's best efforts. "Come on, Gin, he's being doing that sort of stuff for years. Now it's our turn."

"Gracious in victory, Ronald," she snapped, sounding like she was quoting something. Seeing how he flinched, Draco decided it must be something the Weasley matron said: Weasley had let slip last week that the only thing her brother feared besides spiders - a useful bit of knowledge, not that Draco was likely to have a chance to exploit it - was their mother. If she had half the temper Weasley did, then it was no surprise, really.

"Ginny..." Weasel sounded like he was whining.

Draco pointed a piece of toast at Weasley in the most threatening manner he was able, considering it was a bit of half-eaten breakfast. "Careful Weasley. Play too well today and I might have to hex you off your broom. Have to even things up somehow, since you lot seem so intent on cheating." He added a pointed look at the Weasel, just to drive the point home. Although, if Draco were being honest, Weasley could probably sit out the entire game and not have it make the least bit of difference to the outcome: the Slytherin team had been too badly decimated over the last few years to stand a chance, especially against experienced players like the Weasleys and Potter. If Draco were to be even more honest with himself, he would have admitted he didn't actually care about the outcome of the game.

With a bellow like the mountain troll he was, Weasel lunged at him. He got his hands around Draco's neck before he was knocked backwards by his sister's wand. "Don't you dare, Ron Weasley!" she said in that very, very scary tone of voice that always preceded her jinxing Draco so badly he needed Madam Pomfrey's attention. "And you, Malfoy," she hissed, leaning close so that only Draco could hear her, "don't think you can threaten me with toast and get away with it. I'll expect you in Dungeon Five at seven to celebrate my victory like a good little loser." With a huff as though she had just finished threatening his life - and maybe she had - she whirled, collecting her protesting brother, and marched back to the Gryffindor table.

Sulkily, Draco finished his toast. He'd threaten her with baked goods just as much as he damn well pleased, thank you kindly.

* * *

Ron was going to kill that slimy blond ferret. This time, he was going to slip away from Hermione and Ginny, walk right over to the Slytherin table, and throttle the life out of the bastard, and no one would convict him because now Ron Weasley had every damn right to kill the stupid ponce.

"You look like a Christmas tree," Romilda Vane told Ginny. She was sitting rather too close to Harry for Ron's peace of mind - Ginny said she and Harry had broken up (a second time), Harry said they hadn't (although he couldn't always remember them getting together, either), but either way it was _Romilda Vane _- and Ron was a bit afraid of a newly-patented Harry Potter Meltdown. "Doesn't she, Harry?"

Harry looked fairly stable at the moment. He glanced disinterestedly at Romilda, then at Ginny. "Gin, why are you green?" Harry was Ron's best mate, but he was really going to have to start spending some more time in the real world. Ron was pretty sure they'd covered this topic a couple of times this afternoon already, and the brownish tinge in Ginny's cheeks didn't look like embarrassment.

"It's not a good colour for you," Romilda giggled and that, Ron knew, had sealed her doom. He prepared to dive under the table and pull Hermione with him - if Harry was too dense to see which way the wind was blowing, his friend deserved to get caught in the backlash of Ginny's temper. Especially since he was so convinced he was Ginny's boyfriend.

"Oh, go shove a wand up your arse," Ginny snapped. Then she sneered - an expression Ron hoped to never again see on his sweet little sister's face. "I know you like it when Belby does." She stood up and marched away from the table in a huff.

That was... well. Judging by Romilda's face, it was _true_, which would have needed some thinking about if Ron wasn't convinced that that way lay mental pain and some very scary images. And Ginny knew about it - and she hadn't told Ron which, in all fairness, he was quite glad of, but on the other hand, he expected her to tell him things, and maybe she was keeping other things from him too. And personally, Ron didn't think emerald green was that bad of a colour for Ginny - it made her look a bit exotic and not at all like a Christmas tree - although he hoped none of the other blokes noticed. They had better not. Well, Harry was allowed to, if he really was Ginny's boyfriend... although there was some doubt on that front, and Ron had enough trouble with his own life not to try and figure out the headache that was Harry's as well.

"Are you alright, Ron?" Hermione asked, concerned.

He tried to smile weakly at her. "I don't think I needed to hear all that," he said. Because now a dirty little part of his mind was wondering if Romilda really had enjoyed it, and if he would ever dare try something like that himself. No... best not to go there, especially with Hermione sitting right next to him. He was pretty sure that Hermione, with the big brain of hers, could read his mind, since she always seemed to know when he was thinking about perverted things that he really, really didn't want her to know went through his mind.

"Neither did I," she agreed quietly, and he wondered if her mind had gone the same direction his had. No, probably not... she was Hermione, which meant she was thinking of something deep and significant and completely within the rules and the bounds of normal behaviour. "I hope that green colour isn't permanent... it seems to have put Ginny in a bit of a strop."

'A bit of a strop' wasn't how Ron would have described it. Ginny had been flaming livid all afternoon. Most of the younger students had figured it out double quick and passed through the Common Room (where Ginny had spent the afternoon raging) at a dead run, their books and bags held protectively in front of their heads. "As she should be," Ron said. "I oughta kill that bastard Malfoy, hexing her like that. Middle of the game, too."

"I can't figure out why we can't change her back," Hermione said, going off in an entirely different direction. She sounded more annoyed that there was a puzzle she couldn't figure out than that Ron's little sister was (presumably, and there had better not be any little swots trying to check) head-to-toe green.

"I'll just go pound it out of Malfoy," Ron told her reasonably. "That'll fix everything."

* * *

In the Staff Common Room, Minerva McGonagall took a sip of her tea and watched Madam Hooch rant. The woman was getting a bit old for her job, Minerva thought - _but aren't we all._ Although if one were to look at it from a historical point of view, today's match had actually been very tame, at least in terms of rule breaking. There had only been the usual shoving and broom-grabbing. No enchanted Bludgers, no Dementors wandering onto the pitch. There had been that small incident where Draco Malfoy, apparently angry that he wasn't allowed to play on his House team while Potter and Weasley were - there had been a good reason for that exception, although Minerva couldn't remember it just now - had tried to jinx the Gryffindor team. He hadn't managed to do anything worse than turn Ginny Weasley green. They hadn't managed to change her back to normal yet - whatever the Malfoy boy had used, it had been clever - but being green wasn't going to prevent her from going about her day as normal.

Madam Hooch, however seemed to take the attack as a personal assault on her and her game. So she ranted and raved, and Minerva sipped her tea and exchanged knowing, amused looks with Pomona Sprout. Madam Hooch should have known better than to let it upset her, anyway: it was just another minor fracas between Malfoy and the Weasleys.

* * *

Nearly Headless Nick floated through the dungeon wall, and very nearly fell out of the air in shock. As it was, he couldn't hide his slight flinch. Seated on a counter in Dungeon Five - a dungeon very near and dear to his heart, as he'd once imprisoned his cousin here, back when it was acceptable for a civilized gent to do that sort of thing - was a small demon. Most things couldn't hurt a ghost, but a demon... well, those little bastards could hurt anyone, which really wasn't fair, since a person who was already dead ought to be exempt from that sort of thing.

The little green demon, the flames on its head crackling silently, caught sight of him. It glared with a ferocity that would have caused heart failure in a lesser ghost. Nick prudently did an about-face and went back through the wall he'd just passed, deciding he would take the scenic route through the dungeons instead. He might peek back in fifty years or so, just to see if it had gone - he didn't want to give up visiting his favourite dungeon altogether, after all.

* * *

That bastard was _late_, and Ginny was starting to think that the grievous bodily harm she had originally planned to give him was going to be insufficient. It was half seven now; if he was much later, she was going to have to Avada Kedavra his arse. Not only had he turned her green, not only had he tried to intimidate her with toast, but now he was late. And that was simply inexcusable: a wizard ought to be prompt for a duel of honour with his sworn enemy.

There was a small part of her mind that objected to that - the duel of honour part, that was. A duel of honour involved wands and Seconds and so forth, not large quantities of alcohol and snacks. What this in fact was, the small part of her mind said insistently, was drinking with the enemy. And this time - as with the last two - there was no great evil against which they needed to provide a unite front. In fact, it declared, Ginny's conduct in this whole matter was rather suspect. Ginny told that little part of her mind the same thing she had told Romilda Vane, and it wisely decided that maybe there still was some lingering evil kicking around, and Malfoy's Fiendfyre would be an excellent ally against it.

Ginny got up, shook out her mane of red hair - she thought she looked just fine with green skin, whatever Romilda said, and it was the principle of the thing, rather than the fact, that so annoyed her - and prepared to storm the Slytherin dungeons. Draco Malfoy was about to have a very unpleasant day.

* * *

Draco Malfoy was already having a very unpleasant day. His Housemates had noticed his prank at the Quidditch pitch, and objected to the points it had lost them. Having Malfoy in their House was quite enough of a liability in these matters without him deliberately antagonising the teachers and throwing away hard-earned points.

Draco quite understood their feelings, and wasn't the least bit surprised. Nor was he surprised that it took a full twenty of them, all in fifth year or above, banding together to think to challenge him. He was a little bit surprised that they'd had enough foresight to booby-trap the door to his dormitory, rather than simply coming after him, wands blazing. But mostly he was just extremely pissed they'd tied him to a pillar in the Common Room and were now getting ready to take turns hexing him in the most unpleasant way each could think of. It was just so... so utterly _Gryffindor_, for lack of any suitable descriptor that would adequately cover the stupidity of it. And now the bastards couldn't even figure out which of them was going to take their turn first, for fear that the order in which they attacked would somehow impact the retribution handed out. Because there was no doubt in Draco's mind, and precious little in theirs, that such retribution would indeed come, and would be extremely painful and humiliating. Just as this promised to be.

There finally seemed to be a consensus among his assailants and one - a sixth year who really should have been under the same stigma as Draco, considering his parents - stepped forward. Draco took one look at the boy's smug grin and knew exactly what was coming. He himself had learned the Virvelvind Curse - aptly nicknamed the Wind of Razors - when he was in fourth year, and had taken great joy in using it to destroy his mother's topiary garden. This was going to sting like _blazes_.

The boy made a great show of swirling his wand and intoning the words of the curse, and for that he'd pay a little something extra. Draco despised a taste for the dramatic in anyone but himself. It really was tedious. The cyclone of air ripped towards him, making the fire gutter and - _oh,_ Circe,_ that stung_. It couldn't hold a candle to the Cruciatus Curse, pain-wise, but it stung like the devil and now he was bleeding all over his new shirt. There wasn't a stitch-witch in the world that could mend all those tears in his shirt, and for that the bastard was really going to get it. Draco had liked this shirt - the blue brought out similar tones in his eyes, and made his hair look more golden.

There was a booming noise, and one of the crystal tumblers that had been carelessly left on top of the bar shattered. His assailants looked at each other in panic. "Teachers!" one shouted.

"That was Dark Magic, you idiot. You've brought them down on us!"

"It wasn't!" the boy protested. "My dad said it wasn't!"

The booming came again, and in the silence that followed Draco could make out the muffled sound of someone shouting very loudly - screaming, in fact - outside the Common Room door. "Would one of you imbeciles get the door before the teachers really do come to investigate?" he snapped. Really. He was the prisoner here, and still he had to take charge and sort things out.

One of them scuttled over and opened the door, revealing a very angry, very green witch. She hadn't bothered to properly tame her hair after the Quidditch game, and it stood up around her head like a fiery halo. She looked, to Draco, like a supremely angry wood nymph - and he was going to stop that line of thought right there, because one simply did not compare one's enemies to nymphs. That way lay a very uncomfortable form of madness.

"What do you want?" one of the group asked suspiciously, and was hit with a well-placed binding spell - complete with gag - for her pains.

"There you are," Weasley spat. "You're late, you bastard." She marched over and slapped Draco soundly across the face with enough force to make his head ring. He thought, briefly, about pointing out that he was rather tied up at the moment, as it were, but decided being slapped once was enough. Besides, he was late, which was really inexcusable. Friends could be expected to be understanding of that sort of thing, but you had to show courtesy to your enemies.

"Look, Weasley," some pompous little twat began, "you can't just march into our Common Room like that. We were in the middle of something."

Weasley looked at him, then at Draco, and then seemed to take a minute to survey the chipped stone architecture and ripped seat cushions that had been a by-product of the Virvelvind Curse. Then she turned back to the officious prick. "What colour am I?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft. Draco couldn't remember hearing that tone before; he hoped she didn't know any of the Unforgivable Curses, because she looked like she might be inclined to use one.

This apparently random question seemed to throw the group's new spokesman. "Green," he very stupidly told her.

"Too bloody right!" Weasley shrieked. She got a half-dozen solid Bat-Bogey Hexes in before the group scattered into dormitories and around corners where she could no longer get at them. For one, unhappy moment Draco thought she was going to go after them and leave him tied to the pillar. Then she sighed. "You're deuced inconvenient at times, Malfoy," she said, sounding more like her usual self. She cut the bonds that held him to the pillar, and watched suspiciously as he rubbed feeling back into his wrists. It was a bit disconcerting to watch her eyes keep flicking back to his chest.

"Yes, I'm a bit cut up," he snapped, crossing his arms. "Get over it, Weasley." She blushed at that, her cheeks turning a flattering bark-brown, and looked away.

"Git," she said. Then, seeming to recover herself, she turned back and looked him right in the eye. "What sort of hex did you use, anyway? I can't change the colour back."

And because he was gracious and a good man at heart - not because he was distracted by how golden her eyes looked when she glared at him like that - he told her how he'd modified a simple Colour-Changing Charm so that only he could undo it. He hadn't even finished speaking before she'd pointed her want at him and turned him a yellow-brown that was probably meant to be gold. "There," she said, with evident satisfaction. "You finally have a tan, Malfoy."

He glared at her. "I told you I was going to hex you if you played too well." She blushed that pretty brown again, which became purple when he turned her blue. Catching sight of her hands, and realizing what he'd done, she glared fiercely at him.

"Malfoy!" And then she turned him purple.

"Weasley!" She just smirked at him. "Weasley," he repeated, in a more level tone, moving a bit closer so he loomed over her. "Turn me back _right now._"

"You started it," she said, crossing her arms defiantly.

"And you went too far," he growled. "What colour am I, Weasley?"

She stared him in the eye, then her gaze flicked away guiltily. She glanced at his chest, where she'd be able to see through his torn shirt that, yes, he really was all-over purple. Her entire face flamed violet. "I..."

"I'll get you, Weasley." The victim of her earlier binding spell, abandoned by her comrades, had worked at least the gag free. "You just wait until..."

"Do shut up," Draco snapped, shooting a Silencing Spell at her. "We're in the middle of something. Well, Weasley?"

She sighed, apparently losing some internal battle. "_Finite Incantum_," she muttered, and he was back to being sort-of gold. He returned the favour, then she returned him to his proper colour.

Draco raised his wand to take the green off her, but paused. "You look good like that," he said, then realized that it could almost be construed as a compliment. He hastily removed the spell and busied himself behind the bar, gathering up their usual three bottles of Fiendfyre - they never made it through all three, but it never did to be unprepared in battle, as this most certainly was. She'd managed to drink him under the table all three times so far, and while Draco wasn't such a fool as to believe he could best her in this quite yet, tonight he intended to take her down with him. It would only be fair, after that little stunt she had just pulled.

"You know, I'm sick of drinking in the dungeons," Weasley declared as he pulled out the tumblers.

"You have another suggestion?" Draco sneered at her, and was half surprised when she nodded.

"We're going to Gryffindor," she informed him.

He'd thought she might suggest outside - Merlin only knew why - or a classroom or something. But _Gryffindor_? "Absolutely not."

"We did it in Slytherin once, now we're doing it in Gryffindor. Oh, shut up, Malfoy," she added, noticing the suggestive leer on his face. _Well really_, he thought. _She should know better_. Saying foolish stuff like that, people might start to believe they weren't enemies.

"I can't get in," he pointed out, reasonably. And there was no way he was going to risk including the Weasel and Granger, let alone Potty, in their little evening of hostility.

Weasley reached into her bag and pulled something out, which she threw to him. He caught it, knowing what it was as soon as he felt the smooth, watery quality of the fabric. "Potter's Invisibility Cloak? How in Merlin's name did you manage that?"

"I told him I was going to use it to spy on you, since he's so convinced you're up to something." She shrugged, and Draco felt an unaccountable warmth in his cheeks. "I used it to peek at you in the locker room after the game, too."

Draco felt himself go extremely red before he noticed her smirk and remembered that he hadn't been in the locker room after the game. "Very funny, Weasley." He really ought to have been able to think up a better retort than that, but it probably would have dragged the conversation into a realm that he didn't want to enter just now.

"Put it on and let's go," she said impatiently, although she was still smirking slightly. She was so going to get it, he thought, letting her lead him out of Slytherin. As they walked through the corridors, Draco trying to match her pace to hide the sound of his footsteps - there was no reason for anyone to be looking for him sneaking about, but there was also no sense in being careless - he took every opportunity to annoy her. He tripped her, cackling to himself as she stumbled and swung a glare around, trying to figure out where he was. He blew in her ear, snickering at the way she flinched away from it. He poked her in the side, and decided not to examine too closely his reaction to her yelp that was almost a giggle. "No tricks," she hissed as they approached the portrait that guarded the entrance to Gryffindor Tower. Draco didn't need to be told: he was entering enemy territory here, and his reception would be a lot more hostile than hers had been in Slytherin.

At the bottom of a staircase, Weasley muttered a small levitation spell, so that Draco floated about an inch off the ground. "There's enchantments to stop boys entering," she whispered. Draco just wished she'd warned him before she'd started throwing spells around - after her little trick with the purple, he didn't entirely trust her.

They climbed the stairs. Draco was pretty sure the staircase was somehow enchanted, because he'd only counted eight floors and, although it was hard to tell because it was night outside the windows, he was pretty sure they'd gone up sixteen floors. Unless the Gryffindor dormitories had really, really high ceilings, which would be just typical.

Weasley opened the door to a large dorm - big enough for five, since all the dorms were presumably the same size. Inside was only one bed, hung with curtains so red they made Draco nauseous. There were a few armchairs clumped together around a rug in front of a fireplace, in a pitiful attempt to make the room look less empty. "You have your own dorm?" he asked.

She had the grace to look a bit embarrassed as she closed the door behind them, locking it with a word. "Well, no. It was meant to be for Hermione, but she's living with my brother and Harry instead."

Draco pulled off the Cloak so that he could give her a look. "That's disgusting. I need to open this whiskey right now, because you've just put the idea of a Golden Threesome in my mind, and it really, really needs to come out."

Weasley had the grace to look a bit repulsed. "They're not... anything like _that_. It's just this thing."

"This thing. Right," Draco agreed, conjuring ice into the tumblers then adding a healthy (or unhealthy, depending on how you looked at it) portion of Fiendfyre to each. "Be gone, foul image," he intoned, and drained his. It still wouldn't leave, so he drained hers too. Ignoring her protest, Draco realized that his plan to not be completely out-drunk by her was not starting off very well.

* * *

Hermione was nearly positive that something was up. Ginny had set off right after supper, intent on ripping Malfoy limb from limb. Just a few minutes ago she had returned, breezing through the Common Room looking slightly distracted. She was the right colour, and didn't looked like she'd been hexed, which meant Malfoy had probably gotten what was coming to him. So all should have been well with the world. But Hermione was still suspicious.

Ginny and Malfoy seemed to have upped their mutual animosity from 'extreme dislike' to 'all out war' over the last two months. Which was a bit odd, in some ways, because there was no way Ginny couldn't know how much everyone hated Malfoy, and Ginny wasn't the sort of person who would kick a man when he was down. Well, unless he really deserved it, and perhaps Malfoy did. So that was alright. What bothered Hermione was that, even after the two of them had destroyed half a sixth-floor corridor when they went at each other with Blasting Curses, Ginny hadn't said a word. Hermione would have at least expected some grumbling about what an utter bastard Malfoy was. Instead, Ginny said nothing.

Occasionally she would say something that would egg Harry on in his ridiculous witch-hunt against Malfoy, but otherwise his name never came up. She obviously wasn't pretending to ignore him - not after the way she had gone after him with a serving ladle at supper the other night - but if he wasn't around, he might as well not have existed. It was all very odd, and just enough out of character to make Hermione suspicious.

Harry was right: something was up. But Hermione suspected the one behind it was Ginny, not Malfoy. The problem was, Ginny wasn't a fool, and she'd cover her tracks so Hermione would never know what she was doing. She couldn't even go to Ron for help, because he'd either be convinced that Ginny was just making like miserable for Malfoy - to which he had no objections - or was dating some new guy - to which he'd object, but know better than to say anything to Ginny in case she hexed the hell out of him. Life was simpler, Hermione thought, when Death Eaters were still running around: at least it was clear who the enemy was.

* * *

He'd had a head start, but Weasley had been quick to catch up. They'd just finished their first bottle of Fiendfyre, and by Draco's count they'd drunk about an equal amount. So, if life were fair, Weasley ought to have been the drunker of the two of them. Hells, after half a bottle of Fiendfyre, most girls he knew would have been three sheets to the wind and prancing around the Common Room in their knickers. As his luck would have it - his _good luck_, he amended - Weasley was not a typical girl. When it came to drinking with Weasley, half a bottle of Fiendfyre each meant they were at the happily tipsy stage, but they had plenty of leeway before they were well and truly smashed.

Weasley was frowning at him again. She'd been doing that a lot this evening, mostly turning those frowns into glares when he caught her looking, or looking away quickly and becoming very interesting in her glass or the fire. "You couldn't have fixed your shirt at least, Malfoy?"

Of course he could have, and he could have healed his cuts too. He was a wizard after all, and a damn good one at that. He just didn't want to: his torn shirt and small cuts made him feel like a pirate that had just been in a particularly dangerous and villainous duel on the high seas. He was not about to let the reality - that he hadn't been able to fight back, that he hadn't gotten to play with a sword, and that the buxom wench was only Weasley - interfere. "No," he informed her, "I think I'll keep it this way. It looks dashing."

"It looks like you got the snot beat out of you. Except, actually, you did."

That was low, even for Weasley. "It makes me look like a pirate, about to perform various and sundry nefarious deeds." A moment passed. _Sweet Circe! _he thought, as realisation of what he'd just said, and when, caught up with him through the fog of alcohol. Time to distract Weasley before she realized. "Besides, I'm sure you're quite at home with people wearing rags." That was better: she would get mad about the insult to her family, and she wouldn't have a chance to remember a joking promise from two months ago.

"Take that back, Malfoy."

As though that would do any good. Besides, they were enemies; he was pretty sure there was a rulebook somewhere that said he was allowed - nay, _encouraged_ - to insult her and her family. "No."

"Oh, you..." She sent a wordless spell flying at him.

Draco ducked, and came up grinning. "That was pathetic, Weasley. At least your aim is better when you play Quidditch." He was learning that backhand compliments generally soothed her temper enough that she didn't hit him with anything too debilitating.

Weasley just smirked at him. "There's a mirror over by the wardrobe," she told him. What did she mean by that? _Did she not miss?_ Trying not to look panicked, Draco went over and looked in the mirror, doing a mental checklist as he walked. He didn't feel any different, so she probably hadn't Transfigured him into anything. A nonchalant hand run through his hair found no devil horns - such as he'd given her two weeks ago - or anything else amiss. Probably she was just making sport of him, since she was too drunk to hex him properly.

A single glance in the mirror was enough to prove that wasn't the case at all. _That witch!_ "Dammit Weasley, turn it back _right now_!" he howled. She just giggled.

"You're a bit pasty, but it doesn't look too bad on you, Malfoy." _Not too bad?_ He looked like a flaming Weasley! He could have been one of her ghastly brothers, except for being handsome and not a skinny weed or an ugly troll. First she turned him purple, and now she turned his hair red? She was not getting away with it, this time.

He stormed towards her, wand drawn and pointed at her very deliberately. There were limits of acceptable hexes, even between enemies; _especially _between enemies. Weasley darted out of her chair and started backing away, looking genuinely afraid. He wondered what a he should jinx her with first - he could turn her hair into snakes, maybe. Weasley kept backing up and Draco followed, towering over her.

Her back hit a wall, and she realized her mistake. She really should have stood her ground and just taken her punishment - but now she couldn't run at all. Draco moved closer, looming over her. Her watched her eyes, deep chocolate brown in this light, widen; her shoulders were tense. She showed no other indication of fear, though - she had guts, Draco would give her that much. Too bad they wouldn't help her now.

He was just inches away from her now. He could hear every breath she took, could feel the heat from her body against his own alcohol-warmed skin. "Take it off, Weasley," he whispered. Her eyes suddenly grew even wider, and she swallowed. Her lips moved soundlessly, trying to form words.

"_Finite incantum,_" she managed to whisper at last. Draco gave her one last glare, pushing a little bit more into her space, then whirled and strode back to the armchairs. Now he had something else to try and forget: the way her lips her trembled as she looked at him with deep, dark eyes. It wasn't appropriate at all.

* * *

Despite his vehement denials, Malfoy was piss drunk. If she were ever willing to admit to drinking with the prat, Ginny would have enough blackmail material to last a lifetime. The ferret was currently slouched in one of her armchairs, singing with the gusto of one who was far past one over the eight.

_"A withard when young has a s'aff that is small,"_ he sang in what was, to Ginny's slightly muddled ears, a rather nice tenor. _"Ith puny an' weak, ineth... ineffectif wifal."_ If she'd been sober, she would have been surprised he could remember the words to the song, which were considerably more complex than those of Charlie's old favourite drinking song, 'Beer Beer Beer.' _"It grows wif his power til its_ -" he hiccupped - _"tall. Ath his fame n' glory expand."_

She sort of liked listening to his singing - which he was conducting, poorly, with an empty Fiendfyre bottle - but she thought she should probably stop him soon. He'd gone through four verses already, and it sounded like he could go on for a while. "S'enough, Malfoy," she mumbled.

"S'a good song," he said petulantly, staring into the fire.

She tottered unsteadily from her chair to his own, and gave him a slight push in the shoulder, just to let him know she meant business. "Don' matter," she told him. "S'enough singing."

He looked up at her, and she tried to meet his eyes, but somehow she couldn't manage to focus. "Why?" Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Yer drunk."

"Am not," Ginny retorted, despite her obvious condition. He was drunker, anyway. At least she could stand up.

"Are too." He grabbed her arm and gave her a tug so that she overbalanced, landing awkwardly in the armchair with him, in a tangle of arms and legs. "See? Can't even stand up pro'ply."

Ginny tried to glare at him. "Ye can't stand up't all."

"Can too." He tried to stand up, knocking Ginny out of the armchair in the process. She landed on the floor with a muffled thump. Malfoy made it most of the way to his feet before he tripped over her and took a nose-dive into the rug. "Don' feel like it ri' now," he added, as though he'd intended to go arse over teakettle all along. Ginny didn't believe a word of it.

"Bollocks," Ginny declared. "Yer being silly. An' I'm goina bed." Malfoy just grunted at her, apparently content to be stretched out on the rug like a giant, drunken cat. She pulled herself up with all the dignity she could muster and made her way - with a minimum of stumbling - over to her bed. She toed off her shoes and dropped onto the bed, not even bothering to climb between the sheets. The world kept spinning even after she closed her eyes, but at least she wasn't going to fall off it, now.

* * *

In the perpetual twilight of his study, the harsh rasp of parchment on parchment cut the stillness like a death knell. The house elves had laid out supper hours ago, but it remained untouched on the sideboard, and thoughts of it never approached his mind. He had a sense, like a small static that fizzed in all his joints, that he was on the precipice of a major breakthrough.

There were many who said that Caractacus Rosier was mad. And, as they did when they spoke of that fool Xenophilius Lovegood, they said it without a touch of fear in their eyes because Rosier, like Lovegood, was a harmless madman. Oh, there were whispers, rumours, even outright accusations that he had been a Death Eater, and he had never denied them. But as anyone who spent more than a few minutes in the same room as Rosier could attest, the man was incapable of being a typical Death Eater, for all he kept his left forearm scrupulously covered.

The rumours, all of them, were true: Caractacus Rosier was a madman, a devoted servant of the recently vanquished Dark Lord, and a hopeless Death Eater. He may have been a competent wizard, if he could have found his wand under his teetering piles of notes, but he was a utterly incompetent villain. His servitude to the Dark Lord had not been born of malice, or ambition, or adherence to an outdated Pureblood-supremacist ideology. Caractacus Rosier had served the Dark Lord because the Rosiers had always served the Dark Lord, whatever form he or she took in each new generation, and had done so since before the Fall of Rome.

The Wizengamot had acknowledged this at his trial, and that he had never so much as tripped a muggle in the street, and let him off with an injunction 'not to do it again'. Caractacus had shrugged and said he would be too old, when the time arrived, and the duty would fall to any children he might have. It had been the most anticlimactic trial to date, and had not even merited a line in the Prophet.

But Caractacus Rosier knew, as surely as he knew that most people thought he was destined to share a ward with Lovegood at Saint Mungo's, that what he had told the Wizengamot was true. He stared with growing excitement at the parchment page before him, as the quill in his hand moved frantically across the page - joining shapes, adding characters and symbols, marking significant points in the calculations. There, laid out before him, was the joyous and inescapable truth: the cycle was complete. Soon, the next Dark Lord would rise.

And he would be the Red.

* * *

**References:**

One over the eight: possibly a common saying, but in this case stolen from Asterix (as 'I over the VIII')

"The Wizard's Staff": various Discworld books (Terry Pratchett) and fan extrapolations

"Beer, Beer, Beer": a combination of "Gold, Gold, Gold," the dwarf drinking song from Terry Pratchett's Discworld ('Men at Arms', I think) and 'the beer one' of our old Frosh Week chants (since banned)

Caractacus: Caractacus Potts, variously portrayed in different versions of 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang'.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**_  
In which there are consequences_  
Sunday, November 29, 1998

Draco woke to darkness, warmth, and a whole world of pain. His arms and chest stung like mad, and his head... he didn't want to think about his head. Especially because it was only going to get worse. The alarm clock's glowing purple hands said it was quarter to four in the morning, which meant it had only been... some hours since he'd fallen asleep (or passed out, which was more likely). He was still dizzy from the alcohol, but not in the pleasant, floating way that you got when you were still drinking and getting drunker; this was the nasty, nauseating dizziness of coming down from a serious night on the piss. He wanted to groan, but the noise probably would have made his skull hurt. He hoped someone had some Headache Potion because he, for one, was going to need it. _And Weasley damn well better, too._ If he had to suffer, he didn't want to be the only one.

He really should have healed those cuts, he decided. Looking rakish was all well and good, but now that pain had found him again, he was regretting the choice to leave them. Any movement scraped the tatters of his linen shirt across the welts, making them burn. The soft cotton of the sheets was much nicer on them. Without a second thought, Draco wiggled out of the remains of his shirt and tossed it... somewhere... then hurriedly huddled back under the thick duvet. _Merlin, it's cold in this bloody tower._

Tower... he was still in Gryffindor Tower, with the pale light of the moon streaming in through the high windows. In a bed - in _Weasley's _bed. With the red-haired menace herself curled next to him, her breathing deep and even in sleep. _Sweet-fucking Circe..._ this wasn't good. For one thing, he couldn't remember how he'd gotten here. The last thing he could remember was Weasley saying she was going to bed. He'd resolved to go back to his room, right after using the loo... and now he was in bed with Weasley, both of them - a hesitant peek confirmed - fully clothed except for the shirt Draco had just shed.

He could explain away drinking with his enemy, but falling into bed with her? Never in a million years. The Weasel was going to kill him, if Weasley didn't finish the job herself. But just at this moment, he couldn't bring himself to care. His head ached as badly as if a goblin rebellion had been underway inside his skull, and he really didn't want to move around too much just now. Still... he could see the dark smear of a wand on the bed stand. She was going to kill him anyway, so he might as well get a little of his own back first.

Draco sat up slowly, his head protesting every inch that it was raised from the soft pillows which were - though he didn't like to admit it - the equal of his own. He reached out, leaning as far over Weasley as he dared. His fingers had just snagged the wand when the changing dip in the mattress caused Weasley to shift, rolling from her stomach to her side. Rolling _closer _to Draco, and settling up against his hip. Well, that was... _warm_, said a little voice in his head, which also helpfully pointed out that it was too cold for him to be sitting up without a shirt on. Really, it added, he ought to just get back under the duvet and pull the sheets up over his head.

The rest of Draco's tired brain agreed with the plan._ But first..._ he whispered the words of the Colour-Changing Charm, then gently replaced the wand. Despite his nearly-overwhelming desire to just bury himself under the duvet, he moved slowly, careful not to wake Weasley. She might or might not be more amenable to their current situation after a full night's sleep. But since he really didn't feel like moving just now, Draco was prepared to take his chances with waiting.

Weasley let out a soft sigh as Draco slipped fully under the covers, breaking the contact between his hip and her back. _Oh, what the hell,_ he thought tiredly. He was going to be in enough trouble as it was, and she was a welcome source of warmth after sitting up in the cold night. Glad that the soft fabric of her shirt didn't irritate his skin as his own had done - and who would have thought he'd ever find himself wishing for old hand-me-down's like Weasley's? - he shifted closer, tucking his forehead against the back of her neck and pulling the duvet up over his head. _Definitely warm,_ he thought.

* * *

Ginny woke to light, warmth, and a splitting headache. The sunlight was streaming through the window and, uninhibited by the bed curtains, landing squarely on her closed eyelids. Someone - three guesses who - was pounding on the door rather exuberantly considering it was - Ginny cracked an eye open and checked the clock - eight in the morning. It was just like Hermione to come and try to wake her up early after she'd spent a late night drinking. If she had been inclined to be fair, Ginny would have acknowledged that Hermione couldn't have known about her late night, but with the way her head was hurting, Ginny wasn't at all inclined to fairness.

She was also extremely warm and comfortable. She didn't remember getting under the covers last night, but obviously she had. And so had Malfoy. Ginny sat bolt upright - or tried to. As soon as she shifted, Malfoy's arm around her stomach tightened. He mumbled something nonsensical against the back of her neck. She was going to kill the bastard, just as soon as she got rid of Hermione and had a few more hours of sleep. She could wait that long, anyway: he really was quite comfortable, despite being a scrawny little ferret. She couldn't remember the last time a bed had felt this warm and welcoming, so much that she didn't want to leave; perhaps it had been when she was five, and crawled into bed with Charlie because the heater wasn't working in her room, and she was afraid the Ice Dragons would get her. Or maybe when she was eight, and the twins had piled her into George's bed with them to prove to their mother that Ginny _was too _their teddy bear, and that's why they had to take her to Hogwarts with them. Regardless, it had been a long, long time, and never with anyone but her brothers.

"Ginny Weasley, open up this minute or I'm coming in!" Hermione shouted outside the door. _What in blazes is the big emergency? _Ginny wondered. She grabbed her wand off the bed stand and Summoned the bottle of Headache Potion from the medicine cabinet. Malfoy - still unconscious - let her up enough to take a quick swallow, before she huddled back into bed, pulling the sheets back up over his distinctive pale hair. She was going to have a hard enough time explaining to herself why she was, quite literally, sleeping with the enemy; there was no way she was going to be able to explain it to Hermione.

The door opened, and Hermione slipped in. Ginny was pretty sure she'd locked it last night, but perhaps years of - denied - illicit sneaking around with Ron and Harry had given Hermione a certain knack for Unlocking Charms. "Ginny?" she asked softly, approaching. At least Hermione had the courtesy to realize that if Ginny hadn't come to the door, she wasn't inclined to get out of bed, and was acting accordingly; Ron would have probably come and tried to drag her out.

"What's wrong, Hermione?" Ginny's tongue tasted like it was covered in fur, and her breath was probably horrible.

The older girl stopped a few yards from the bed. "I just heard there was some sort of trouble down in Slytherin last night and, well..." She had the grace to look embarrassed, at least. "I was wondering if you knew anything about it, since I thought you might have been having another one of your fights with... Ginny!"

_Shite. She's noticed. _Ginny waited for Hermione to go absolutely mental. But all the other girl said was, "Your hair..." Ginny slipped a hand from under the duvet and grabbed a piece of it, bringing it in front of her blurry eyes to study it. She had no idea when he would have done it but, apparently, the ferret had gotten his revenge. Really, she ought to have lost it right there, and just pulled back the sheets and hexed the bastard, regardless of what Hermione would think seeing him there. Instead, she just sighed, and felt a momentary tightening of said bastard's arm around her. Somehow, as soon as Hermione had said it was her hair, Ginny knew what she would find: pale, white-blond strands to match Malfoy's own.

"Guess it's only fair," she muttered. "I turned his red," she added, for Hermione's benefit.

"Oh. _Oh! _Wait until Ron hears." Hermione giggled, then the smile slipped from her face. She looked at Ginny in concern. "Are you alright, Ginny?"

Ginny gave an exaggerated yawn. "I'll be alright. I just had a late night." Hermione directed a significant look at the Headache Potion, and Ginny felt her cheeks get hot. "Yes," she muttered.

Hermione looked disapproving, but didn't comment. "Well, I'll leave you to sleep, then," was all she said before leaving the dorm. Ginny waited until she was gone before she relaxed and snuggled back into bed. She had no idea what she was going to do when they were both awake, but for now she was going to enjoy stealing Draco's warmth.

* * *

Ron was all but hopping with impatience when Hermione returned to the Common Room. He'd wanted to go up and check on his sister, but he couldn't get past the enchanted stairs and Hermione, as much as she adored him, was not going to show him any of the obvious loopholes in the enchantment. A girl needed to have _some_ refuge, after all.

She was glad - for her own sake, as well as Ginny's - that she had been the one to go up and check on the girl, rather than Ron. She didn't know who Ginny thought she was fooling, pulling the covers up like that, but the mound in that bed had been far too big for a single person. Ginny had had a guest last night, and they hadn't gone back to their own dorm. The whole room had smelled of whiskey - as though Hermione had needed to see the Headache Potion to know what Ginny had been up to - and she thought she had spotted a man's shirt lying on the floor. The youngest Weasley really had no idea how lucky she was that her brother couldn't get at her.

Hermione wasn't going to tell Ron about it, either. If he found out on his own - which he might, since there were still a few in the castle unwise enough to spread gossip about Ginny's romances where her brother might hear - that would be Ginny's problem to deal with, and Hermione planned to claim complete ignorance.

"Well?" Ron demanded. "Where is she? Why isn't she coming down here? If Malfoy hurt her..." He let the threat hang, for all the good it would do voicing it here.

"She's fine, Ron. She's just sleeping in." Except for her blond hair, Ginny had looked better than fine: she had looked quite happy, in fact. Hopefully the girl wasn't too blinded by her new-found romance to remember to fix her hair colour. And wouldn't Hermione love to know which boy was brave enough to be with Ginny when he could expect the wrath of both Harry and Ron to descend on his head - but she wasn't going to ask. "Besides, we don't actually know what happened in Slytherin. Malfoy might not have been involved at all."

"Not bloody likely," Ron said, and privately Hermione agreed. But if she said anything, Ron would take it as almost certain proof, and the last thing she needed right now was him after Malfoy's head. Well, no: the _last_ thing she needed was him taking Harry with him. "Come on," he added to Harry, who still looked sleepy and bewildered. "Let's head down to breakfast, and see if we can't get some answers out of Malfoy."

And because it involved getting answers out of Malfoy - who must be plotting something - Harry went along happily, even though he wasn't exactly sure what was going on. _The blind leading the blind_, Hermione thought in resignation as she followed her two best friends out the portrait-hole. _At least he won't have time to panic about Ginny._

* * *

Life had been difficult these past few months, but things were looking up. Draco would even have been able to see the bright side if his head didn't hurt so much. The light was conducting a very efficient campaign of against his eyelids, attacking with enough force to assault him even with his eyes closed.

"There's Headache Potion, if you want it," a voice said - far too loudly - right in his ear. It would have been a pleasant voice - or at least, recognizable - if it didn't make his skull pound.

He would later deny whimpering. "Not so loud," he pleaded.

There was an irritated sigh like the gusting of a hurricane. "I'm whispering, you idiot. Now let me go and sit up."

"Unk," Draco said succinctly, and tried to bury himself back in the comfort of the bed and oblivion. That sigh came again, and the voice started muttering over-loud imprecations against him, his family, and his House. Things started shifting around him, making the world tilt precariously. He felt something held to his lips.

"Drink," he was ordered, and a potion was poured down his throat, nearly choking him. With a strangled gasp, Draco sat up, only just avoiding spitting all the potion back up. His head suddenly felt remarkably clearer, and didn't hurt nearly as much. His stomach wasn't ready to make peace with him yet, but he'd deal with that later.

He took in his surroundings, and decided that now was probably a good time to get embarrassed. On the other hand, that would only make him look like an idiot, so he settled for being an arse. "What did you do to me, Weasley?" he asked suspiciously, even though he was pretty sure that it was, somehow, his own fault. He glared at her and tried to keep from staring. She was fully dressed, but her clothes were rumpled and her hair mussed in a way that practically screamed 'wild night.' The pale blond of her hair didn't look natural on her, as it did on him, but it was definitely striking. _She had better get mad soon_, he thought. Otherwise, she was going to notice his stare.

"You're the one that accosted me in my bed, Malfoy. And where's your shirt?" She was so angry she couldn't meet his eyes, but instead kept glancing around as though looking for something to throw at him.

Draco had a vague recollection of having tossed his shirt somewhere, and for a very good reason... unfortunately, the details were a bit fuzzy. "I don't need it," he informed her archly.

"Really?" She suddenly had a very worrying smirk on her face. "Well then." She hopped out of the bed and strode to the wardrobe. It only took her a moment to pull out some clean clothes - did she have so few, or just no sense to try and coordinate? - and ducked into the loo, emerging a minute later freshly dressed with her hair tamed. Having only his mother for reference - he had no idea what Narcissa did when dressing, but it took her hours - Weasley's change seemed almost instantaneous. "Right, let's go, Malfoy," she said, tossing him the Invisibility Cloak.

He caught it, but didn't put it on. "Where?" he asked, perplexed. She couldn't be expecting him to go somewhere with her when he hadn't had a shower.

"You can't stay here," Weasley said, rolling her eyes. "You're going back to Slytherin." Oh, well, that was probably acceptable. He should probably have a shirt, but his own was in tatters and missing - some house elf had probably absconded with it - and besides, he'd be under the Invisibility Cloak all the way to Slytherin.

He pulled it on and slipped into his shoes, and had just opened the door when Weasley stopped him. "Nice try, Malfoy. I'm coming with you - you can't keep Harry's Cloak."

"You'll have to find me," he told her.

"The staircase, remember?" she added, just before he set foot out her door. Although she couldn't see it, Draco glared at the offending magical contrivance. Bloody annoying, that's what it was. "You'll have to at least take the hood off so I can do the Levitation Charm." He pulled the hood back and glared at her, but she ignored it. _Swish and flick_, and Draco felt himself floating. He pulled the Cloak back over his head, and floated behind Weasley down the staircase and through the Common Room.

And practically into the waiting arms of the Golden Trio, who were gathered around a table with their books open, although they didn't look to be working. "Ginny!" Weasel was the first to notice her. "Your hair!"

He saw Weasley start guiltily, and wondered if she'd forgotten. Draco was left floating helplessly behind her as she confronted her brother, but this little scene promised to be worth his time. "I know, Ron. I tried to get rid of it, but the stupid prat made it stick even worse than the green." _She can't even glare at me_, Draco thought in delight. If she did, Potty and Co. would know something was up. And while it would be bad for him, Weasley's reputation would never recover from trying to sneak a shirtless Draco Malfoy out of her dormitory. He choked back a snigger.

"Tell me you at least hexed the stupid ponce," Potty put in, looking rather to keen on the thought. "Was it really good?"

_Oh shite,_ Draco thought. What was she going to tell them? "Well," Weasley admitted, blushing slightly as though embarrassed, when really Draco knew she was snickering to herself. "I turned him purple."

Potty looked a bit disappointed, but the Weasel roared with laughter. "That's bloody brilliant, Gin. Good on you."

Weasley should _not _have looked so happy at the praise, Draco thought. "Thanks Ron. I'm headed down for brunch. I'll see you later." With a wave, she sashayed out the portrait-hole, trailing Draco along behind her. Maybe he should have just pulled the Cloak off - would have served her right for telling the Weasel King about turning him purple.

"I can walk, Weasley," he drawled. Even if no one could see it, it was demeaning to be carted this way through the corridors.

She shook her head firmly. "I'm not having you run off with that Cloak, Malfoy." He wanted to protest that he wouldn't, but he couldn't really say that for sure. It would have been a different matter if the Cloak was Weasley's, but since it belonged to Potty, he wouldn't hesitate to steal it and use it for all sorts of nefarious deeds. _'Nefarious' again... _he resolved not to use that word ever again: in only led to trouble.

They were almost at the Great Hall when Weasley stopped. Draco floated to a halt beside her. "We're here, Malfoy," she said. Before he could ask what she meant - this was obviously not the Slytherin dungeons - he felt the Cloak pulled off, and his feet hit the ground.

"Hey, Weasley..." But she was gone, disappeared under the Cloak. With a growl - he'd get her for this one - Draco turned and marched down the staircase towards the Entrance Hall. Weasley was going to be in for a world of pain when he caught up with her.

* * *

Muttering a charm to silence her foot-steps, Ginny followed Malfoy to the main staircase into the Entrance Hall. She could have just turned around and gone on to breakfast, leaving him to face his punishment for being an insufferable prick on his own. But Ginny had been schooled in the arts of Mayhem and Revenge by the Gods of Mischief themselves, the Weasley twins - so she just had to watch.

As soon as she'd disappeared he'd muttered some very choice imprecations - they were good enough that even Ginny, with six brothers, had never heard some of them before - then drawn himself up in true Malfoy style and stalked off as though he owned every damn thing in sight. There had to be arrogance bred into his bones, Ginny thought, because no one could learn that sort of self-possessed conceit.

Sunday mornings were always slow around Hogwarts, but if Malfoy had been hoping to avoid seeing anyone until he got back to his own dorm, he was doomed to be disappointed. It was getting close to lunchtime, and students were flocking towards the Great Hall for lunch, or a very belated breakfast for those who'd slept in. Malfoy, Ginny realized with glee, was going to have to walk through a crowd of students before he made it back to his dormitory.

"I know you're watching this, Weasley," he said quietly, not glancing back at her. "Enjoy the show." And he strolled down the stairs like he was making his entrance to a ball in his honour. He wasn't doing anything obvious to gather attention, but his presence seemed to naturally expand, giving him a command of the room that left Ginny breathless. It simply wasn't _fair_ that he should be able to do that.

"Malfoy, what happened?" It didn't sound mocking at all... rather, to Ginny's extreme disappointment, the boy's voice sounded concerned. What had happened to the mass-hatred he'd been subjected to these past months?

"Are you alright?" a girl chimed in. And so it went, as he walked down the stairs and through the Hall towards the stairs down to the dungeons. The same students who had, only days ago, been surreptitiously shooting hexes at him were questioning him with genuine concern. Malfoy walked past, speaking only a few words to reassure his adoring public that he was alright, but not giving any indication of what had happened to leave him shirtless and covered in welts, as though he'd been attacked with knives or a whip.

Ginny, skirting the edges of the crowd so no one would bump into her, even heard a couple of girls in the upper years admiring him. "Who would have thought Malfoy would have such nice abs?" one said. Knowing that he patently did not, Ginny took a good look at the ferret to see if he was using a glamour, or if the girl was just loopier than Luna.

He had... well, he didn't have muscles, exactly. His shoulders were a bit on the narrow side, and his chest had the definition of lean muscles under no fat. Either he didn't have any chest hair, or it was too pale to be seen from this distance - somehow, Ginny knew it was the former, and desperately tried to block out the source of that knowledge. He didn't look anything like the men in the magazines some of her friends read, or the ones who adorned the covers of cheesy romance novels. But it wasn't... well, it wasn't like he was deformed or anything. The half-healed slashes from the curse he'd been hit with last night showed up starkly on his pale skin, so random as to seem artistically haphazard. Ginny tore her gaze away. One was not supposed to look at one's enemies with an eye to the aesthetic: it was demeaning, and contrary to the noble and pure nature of the enmity. Besides, he was a skinny, pasty little ferret, whose abs were only decently nice to look at. And his back, unmarred but for one long slash that wound from under his arm to the base of his spine, wasn't anything worth looking at either, which was why Ginny was pointedly not looking.

She tailed him as far as the bottom of the steps down to the Slytherin dungeons, annoyed that her revenge had not worked out at all the way she'd planned. _This is stupid_, she decided, and turned to go back to the Great Hall for brunch as she had originally planned. "Like that, Weasley?" his voice was quiet and slightly mocking.

Ginny had been just about to let him go without further reprisal. But after a comment like that... she pulled out her wand and turned his hair red again, then whipped the Cloak off and stormed up to the Great Hall. With his soft, mocking laugh ringing in her ears, it didn't feel like the victory it should have.

* * *

If someone had asked him, for a million galleons, if Ron was certain if that was his brother sitting at the Slytherin table, Ron still would have sworn it was. At a single glance, the prat looked just like Percy. A second look revealed a glower that Percy could never have achieved, even if Ron had set fire to all his precious paperwork. Percy could be a small-minded twit, but he didn't have the twisted, evil soul that Malfoy needed to pull off that expression. Besides, Percy hadn't been that scrawny since he was fifteen: like their father, he was still thin, but he wasn't a skinny little ferret.

No one had hair that colour except the Weasleys. There were other people with red hair, but none with that particular shade of bright, burning red that faded to carrot at the tips (although only Ginny and Bill had hair long enough for it to be noticeable). Just as - Ron glanced at his sister - there was only one family that produced that nearly colourless blond hair. He really wasn't sure what to make of Ginny exchanging hair colours with Malfoy, so he settled for being angry about it. If Malfoy was involved, 'angry' was a good default state, in his experience.

"I don't know what that git's problem is, but you should make him change your hair back," he told Ginny as they took places around her for supper.

His little sister rolled her eyes. "Do you think I'm not trying? I don't like looking like the Amazing Bouncing Ferret's little sister, you know."

"Git," Ron said, succinctly summing-up his feelings on the entire matter.

Harry, evidently just noticing Ginny's hair, paused halfway through sitting in his chair next to her. "Gin?" he asked. Ron didn't like the slight tremor her heard in his friend's voice: it boded ill for the peace of their suppertime.

"Yes, Harry?" And when had his cute little sister learned to swing her hair in that flirtatious way? Ron did not approve. Even if it was only Harry, her maybe-boyfriend, Ginny was supposed to be innocent and pure and not give Ron any reason to think otherwise. His blood pressure really couldn't take it, as Hermione frequently reminded him. He was going to go grey before his time, too, he just knew it.

Hermione leaned close, and whispered in his ear. "Ron, why's Malfoy watching us?" Ron glanced over his shoulder. It probably wasn't right to say that Malfoy was watching them: rather, they were the objects of his heated glare, the difference being that Malfoy didn't give a flying monkey's balls what they were doing, so long as they knew he was angry with them. That was alright, Ron thought, heaping sweet potatoes on his plate. He didn't care what Malfoy did either, as long as the ferret knew he was being ignored. Yes, Malfoy was beneath his notice: let the bastard suck on that for a while.

Across the table, things were getting difficult, and Ron cursed his momentary distraction. "Of course I'm Ginny," the now-blond girl sighed. "Who else would I be, Harry?" He muttered something about not knowing, sounding twice as paranoid as old Mad Eye at his barmiest. "I really want to eat my supper, Harry, so is there some way I can prove it to you? I'm hungry." Ginny sounded just a bit impatient.

"If you're really my girlfriend, you'll kiss me," Harry said, as though this was a great test. Ron didn't want to contemplate what could have happened if it really hadn't been Ginny - if she had, for instance, been Goyle in disguise. That was just disgusting.

"I _am_ Ginny, but I'm not your girlfriend, Harry. We broke up." As though she hadn't told him that a dozen times before, and Harry had disagreed just as many. Ron wasn't sure who to believe, although since he thought Hermione was scheming to get the two of them back together, Ginny probably had it right.

This didn't look like Ron would be getting a peaceful supper any time soon. "Look, Gin," he said, trying to be reasonable. "You _are_ Ginny, and even if you're not his girlfriend, you can still kiss him."

"Ron, are you actually telling your sister to kiss a boy?" Hermione sounded shocked.

"S'just Harry," he muttered, realizing belatedly that she had been kidding.

Ginny gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Come here, Harry." She grabbed him by the chin and planted a sound kiss on his lips. Ron looked away and groaned. He'd hoped she could be more discreet about it, so he wouldn't have to watch. It might only be Harry, but Ginny was still his little sister.

"I guess you are Ginny. Sorry," Harry said, not sounding sorry at all. In fact, he sounded damn pleased with himself, and Ron decided that his best mate was a conniving little bugger, and they needed to have a serious talk about public displays and Ron's mental well-being.

"They're done now," Hermione whispered, grinning. _That's right,_ Ron thought, _everyone laugh at the protective older brother. Just you wait until she's running off with some slime-ball. You'll see how right I was to worry._

He felt a prickling in his neck and glanced back. If anything, the heat of Malfoy's glare had turned up. He looked like he wanted to rip Ron's intestines out and pin him to the wall like a bug. Which was fine with Ron, because any tension he built up watching Ginny and Harry canoodle - and judging by Harry's smug face, there would be a lot - could be worked off by beating the holy living snot out of the bugger.

"_Don't _lose us points," Hermione said warningly. Ron just smiled and ate his sweet potatoes. He'd have a pleasant supper and then he'd go make life hell for Malfoy: life just didn't get any better.

* * *

One day, Hermione decided, she was going to come to her senses and move somewhere like New Zealand, where she would at last be able to have an intelligent conversation. After all, there were plenty of sheep there, and she was willing to bet that most of them were smarter than Ron, or at least had more common sense.

They'd hardly finished pudding when Ron went after Malfoy, cornering him just outside the Great Hall and spouting his fool mouth off. "Turn her back, Malfoy," Ron snarled, his hand fisted in Malfoy's collar. The other boy gave him a look of disdain that was pure Malfoy, despite his hair creating the illusion that he was a Weasley.

"It's not like I turned her into a rat," returned Malfoy. He wasn't quite snapping, but Hermione could see that his temper was just about at its end. "Weasley, call off this troll." A peek over her shoulder showed Hermione that Ginny had come out of the Great Hall, Harry tagging after her.

How she knew Malfoy was addressing her, Hermione didn't know - perhaps she just automatically responded to the surname - but Ginny looked over and met Malfoy's eyes. Something dangerously close to a smirk stole its way across her features. Well, Hermione conceded, it_ was _a bit funny. Malfoy was probably choking a bit, being pinned against the wall so he had to either stand on tiptoes or dangle from Ron's fist. But if one of the teachers came along, they were all going to be in trouble.

Harry used the moment when Ginny's attention was fixed on Malfoy to grab her hand. Ginny looked back, startled, and tried to tug her hand back. "Leave off, Harry," she sighed in exasperation.

Perhaps the last thing Hermione expected to hear was Malfoy's drawl supporting Ginny. "Really Potter, even Weasley's not_ that _desperate." Considering the source, Hermione figured that counted as support.

"Now see here, Malfoy..."

"My hand, Harry," Ginny said sternly, and pulled it out of Harry's grasp. He gave her a hurt, uncomprehending look, and Hermione wished Ginny would just get back together with him already. Life was easier all around when things worked the way Harry expected them to, and it wasn't like Ginny didn't love him. She just didn't like being taken for granted; considering her own relationship with Ron, Hermione could sympathize.

"You made her look like a Malfoy," Ron growled at his captive. "I'd say that's pretty damn bad."

"I was doing her a favour," Malfoy snapped back. "Now she doesn't look like a part of your misbegotten, dirt-poor brood anymore."

Hermione thought Ron was going to punch him, and both the boys did too. But Ron's hand was stopped, rather unexpectedly, by the sound of laughter. Hermione stared at Ginny, who was giggling to herself quite happily, as though Malfoy hadn't just insulted both her and her family. "Sorry, sorry," the girl said, between giggled. "Go ahead, Ron."

"What's so funny, Gin?" Ron asked, suspicious.

"Just that he says that, and he looks like one of us. How's it feel to be on the other side, Malfoy?" There was a sparkle in her eyes that Hermione didn't trust. That would be another benefit of getting her back together with Harry, Hermione thought: this feud she had going with Malfoy was making Ginny into a bit of a bitch. The sooner she gave it up and got together with Harry, the sooner she'd be back to her old self.

"Grungy," Malfoy sneered. "I have an overwhelming urge to go wallow in a pigsty."

"Let me help you with that, Malfoy," Ron said, pulling out his wand.

"Hey Weasley." Five heads snapped around to face the speaker. There were two new arrivals, both seventh year Slytherins. The girl had an angry, squinty look to her, and the boy seemed like an even chubbier version of Ernie Macmillan, and twice as pompous.

Ginny was looking at the pair in confusion, as though trying to figure out if she knew them. She ought to, Hermione thought: they were in the same year, after all. At last Ginny seemed to figure out who they were. "Oh," she said. "It's you two." And then she frowned in a way Hermione had come to associate with an escalation in the ongoing dispute with Malfoy.

"Just you wait, Weasley." The girl was smirking; it made her look a bit like an Impressionist painting, although Hermione wouldn't dream of saying it out loud. "When you're least expecting it..."

"Oi." Ron put Malfoy down, and turned to face the newcomers. "Are you threatening my sister?" Briefly, Hermione found herself wishing that Ron would defend _her_ like that occasionally. It was probably tiresome for Ginny, but Hermione would have appreciated his concern. Ginny could look after herself most of the time, anyway.

"What's it to you, Weasley?" the boy sneered.

Malfoy stepped out from behind Ron and paced forward. He moved slowly, with a grace that Hermione could only describe as 'predatory'. The two seventh years didn't move, although the girl got even more pinched and the boy seemed to deflate a little. "Oh," he said, in a strange echo of Ginny's earlier words, "it's you two." And then he smiled in a way that had once preceded him starting particularly vicious fights with Harry, but now meant he and Ginny were about to have one of their more spectacular rows.

"Malfoy," the boy began, before switching tracks and stupidly saying, "I didn't recognize you with the red hair."

Malfoy's wand was out and pointed at them before a sharp "Malfoy!" from Ginny stopped him. Hermione looked at her in bewilderment. They weren't supposed to be quarrelling in the corridors, it was true, but she would never have thought Ginny would step in if Malfoy looked about to do something that would get him expelled. If anyone would be glad to see the back of the bastard, it would be Ginny, especially since he seemed to have escaped punishment for everything he'd done in the course of their recent fights. "If I ever figure out who the hell the two of you are, I'm going to gut you," Ginny added. Then she smiled a shark's smile that, for one terrifying moment, made her look like Malfoy.

The two seventh years took one last look at the two very angry red-haired wizards and the irate witch arrayed against them, and decided to slither away. "It's not the end, Weasley," the girl muttered as she left, but it sounded like an empty threat.

"What was that about?" Hermione demanded. Just for a brief second, Malfoy and Ginny traded dark looks. Hermione chalked it up to another 'I'll get you later' challenge between the two of them. With their constant feuding, it was a wonder Malfoy hadn't been expelled yet.

"Bit of a fracas," Malfoy said dismissively.

Ginny shrugged. "They interfered with our duel." If that was all there was to the story, Hermione would eat McGonagall's tartan hat. From the closed looks they both wore, though, she wouldn't get any more of the truth out of them. Something was very definitely up, and Hermione was afraid Ginny was getting in over her head.

"Malfoy," Ron said, turning back to the original purpose of this confrontation. "Turn her hair back."

"Don't bother, Ron," Ginny said with a smile. "I don't mind being a blond for a little while. And Malfoy looks terrible with red hair, anyway." She walked away as though that settled everything, and Harry went with her. _They suit each other, _Hermione found herself thinking, uncharitably. _They're each as addled as the other. _Which meant they made Luna Lovegood look like the paragon of sanity.

With a resigned sign, Ron shot a final glare at Malfoy. "Watch yourself," he warned the other boy. Malfoy just shrugged and sauntered off towards the dungeon. Yes, something was definitely up, and Hermione was going to figure out what it was.

* * *

The cold air of the sub-dungeon was heavy with smoke and the moisture that seeped through the dirt and stone walls. Two torches shed uneven, flickering light, hissing slightly as the magical flames struggled to burn in a room where normal torches would have guttered and died long since. Three figures - bound, blindfolded and gagged - knelt on the hard packed-dirt floor.

Most people would have said Weasley didn't need to be here for this, but Draco never questioned her presence. It was somehow_right_ that she should be here with him. He was the one who had been attacked, but it seemed to be the nature of their enmity that his honour was her honour, and a slight to one was an offence to both. It would have sounded incredibly stupid, and not a little suspect, if he'd said it out loud, though, so he didn't bother trying to explain it, even to himself.

"You're not going to get away with this, Malfoy." Despite being bound, with her words muffled by the gag, the girl managed to sound haughty - and also like she wanted to spit when she said his name. "I'll see you expelled for this." It was all very well to be able to keep your composure in a bad situation - which, for them, this most assuredly was - but he didn't know who she thought she was fooling: she was terrified, and wasn't even putting up a good pretence of being otherwise.

"Ineffectual threats annoy me," he drawled in return. "So we'll start with you." He saw her flinch and huddle in on herself, no doubt expecting the Cruciatus curse. _Does she think I'm stupid? _The sub-dungeon was still a part of the school, and the teachers would know the moment he used the Dark Arts, especially an Unforgivable Curse. But there were other ways. _Imaginative_ ways, ones that most Death Eaters would never have dreamed of.

Draco, having been hit with horrific combinations of jinxes that any competent third year could manage, having more than once been chased by winged bogeys, well understood that there were ways and ways to make someone suffer, but which would never occur to someone whose automatic recourse was the Dark Arts. With that way blocked to him, well... it was time to be _inventive_. He cast a Bubble Head Charm.

When Flitwick taught the charm, on warm summery days down by the lake, he warned the students _ad nauseam_ that as soon as it was cast, they must dive underwater. It wasn't only that the charm only worked underwater, but also that, like gills, anyone who used it would be unable to breathe in air.

It was moist down here, so a tiny trickle of air might make its way into the bubble, but even so she would quickly exhaust the small supply of oxygen left to her. "Don't kill her," Weasley said, conversationally, tapping her wand against her leg. "I can't bring them back to life."

"What... what are you doing?" demanded one of the boys that knelt in the center of the room. The chubby boy next to him looked ill, but that might have just been the light.

Draco considered lying to them, spinning some elaborate yarn that would scare the shit out of them, but thought better of it. "Just listen," he said, gently, as though the words were meant to soothe. The thick silence that followed was punctuated by the hiss of the torches, the soft breathing of the room's occupants and, increasingly, but the bound girl's gasping breaths, strangely distorted by the bubble that covered her head. The lack of other sounds magnified the gurgling, tortured gasps.

Both the boys were shaking now, slightly. The girl had fallen to the floor and thrashed about, as though she could escape the suffocating charm. Beside him, he heard Weasley murmur a charm: a monitoring spell. A series of glowing numbers appeared in the air above the thrashing girl. Weasley watched them with a dispassionate, professional eye. "That'll do," she murmured.

Draco ended the spell. The girl shuddered, gasped, and vomited around her gag, then lay still. "What happened?" the chubby boy demanded. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," Weasley said, as a wave of her wand cleaned up the vomit. "You're only down here for a little chat, remember?"

"We only want to impress upon you the... inadvisability of fucking with us," Draco added, his voice equally level and quiet.

"Fucking traitor," growled the other boy - the sixth year that had performed the Virvelvind Curse with so much enthusiasm the night before. "You're allying with the enemy now, Malfoy."

"Really?" He kept his voice bored, but really he wanted to go over there and strangle the little bastard. "Wasn't the original trouble that I _wouldn't_ ally with the enemy? That I wouldn't bend knee to bloodtraitors and mudbloods. That I wouldn't beg for dignity even as I threw it away." His laugh was low and harsh.

"Stay out of the arguments of adults, little boy," Weasley added. It should have sounded pompous or false - the boy was only a year younger than her, after all - but the words came out rich and sibilant. Brave men a hundred years her senior would have bowed their heads and scurried off with their tails between their legs at the sound of those words. It reminded Draco, like a nasty shock of lightning, that the young woman beside him had once been host to a piece of the Dark Lord's soul. That piece was gone but something - an idea perhaps, a memory or an attitude - remained.

He really wasn't sure how to feel about that, so he pushed it away. Considerations of Weasley and what lived under that red-haired, muggle-loving exterior would have to wait until later. Right now, there was no time for hesitation or doubt.

The chubby, pompous seventh year was next on Draco's list. He and the girl had been the ones that had appeared after dinner - the boldest of the bunch, it seemed, to make threats in the open like that. It had made them the perfect ones to make examples of - not that they were be examples, exactly, since any open movement on his part would result in his expulsion and incarceration. But they would know, and the others would know that something had happened.

Weasley, with her plans to be a Healer, would erase the physical evidence, and a partial memory charm would distort their victims' recollections to the point where even statements under Veritiserum would no longer be reliable. Draco, for his part, had spent the hours after dinner crafting a pair of simulacra from hair and flobberworms. A false Weasley was currently asleep in Gryffindor Tower, under the watchful eyes of her brother and his friends. The fake Draco was in the Infirmary, sleeping off a high fever. There would be no evidence.

The thick moisture and chill of the sub-dungeon meant it was child's play to encase the cubby boy's lower body in ice. A wave of Draco's wand removed the gag, and replaced it with a Silencing Spell. The slow freezing of the boy's feet, legs, and todge would be painful, but not nearly as much as the rapid thawing that would follow. Even with the gag, the boy's screams might have echoed up to the more frequented parts of the dungeon.

While he was busy, Weasley had already started work on the sixth year boy. "I was hoping to do something special with this one," he commented as he watched her.

"You were busy. We have classes tomorrow, so we should wrap this up and get some sleep." She said it as simply as if they were playing cards. He wondered what she was thinking. For himself, he'd seen much worse during his year of exile from Hogwarts, and also knew that this was, in large part, an act of self-preservation. But though she had fought she had not, as far as he knew, killed, and in some ways torture was much worse than a clean kill.

The boy whimpered. Weasley had, thus far, done nothing to him as far as Draco could see - which just meant she was fiendishly clever, a part of him whispered. She had a small knife out - the kind they used for chopping potions ingredients - and had been running it up and down the boy's bare arm, but scarcely hard enough to scratch. From the way he was writhing, you'd think she was cutting his arm off at each pass.

"It's a Supersensory Charm," Weasley said, not bothering to keep her voice low. "And he's under a Silencing Spell."

"You're obviously not very good at them," Draco told her.

She just smirked at him. "I was going to ask you to put a second one on. I'm trying to conserve a bit of energy for patching this lot up after." At the final word, she pushed down on the knife a little harder, drawing a single drop of blood from the boy's forearm. The scream the boy emitted with was nearly speaking-volume.

Draco hastily cast another Silencing Spell, then raised an eyebrow. "Just what does this wonderful charm of yours do?"

"It improves the senses. We used it with Dad's flying car for a little while." She looked down at the sixth year boy. "Every word he hears is like a nail driven through his ears - or so I'd imagine." A slight, bitter smile twisted her lips. "I've been thinking: if I gave him a piece of chocolate, might his head explode?"

Draco let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "If this was combined with the Cruciatus Curse..." But she was shaking her head.

"You wouldn't survive. The human body can't withstand that kind of shock. This one," she patted the boy's head, "might hardly survive listening to us talk." As if to confirm her words, the glowing numbers above the boy's head chose that moment to start flipping madly, skyrocketing and then plummeting as quickly as an ill-planned Wronski Feint. "_Finite Incantum,_" Weasley murmured.

"You're evil," Draco murmured in admiration.

She didn't smile. She was staring instead at the unconscious boy. "There was a boy - a first year Hufflepuff - two years ago. A half-blood. He lived with his dad - his mum didn't believe in magic. His dad was in the Order." She paused. Her eyes shone oddly in the torchlight: now gold, now black, now red, and he thought she might be fighting back tears. "His dad was killed fighting werewolves - back in March, Susan said. When the Death Eaters came to Hogwarts," she looked at him then, for a moment, and he knew she was refraining from saying 'when _you_ let them in,' though a part of him wished she'd voice the thought, "that boy," her chin indicated her victim, "caught the first year when he was trying to get back to his Common Room. He gave him to Greyback." _He deserves it, you mean,_ a voice in his head whispered, but he knew that wasn't what she meant. Not at all.

He didn't want to know about the first year, or this boy, or Greyback. He didn't want to hear her quiet, empty voice telling him about the horrors he'd brought on the school. "What happened to him?" he heard himself ask, as if from a great distance. He shouldn't care, not about his old enemies or this boy he'd never met: it had been his own life, and those of his family, at stake. But just a little, he did.

"I don't know. Susan said he went somewhere, with Lupin. Saint Mungo's, maybe, although I doubt it. He was terrified of werewolves, ever since they killed his father. And he couldn't go back to his mother - she's a muggle."

Draco bit his lip. "I..." he started to say. _I... what? _Was he sorry? _No, not sorry._ But he did feel guilty.

"It's not your fault," she said quietly. She wasn't looking at him, but at the sprawled boy on the floor. "He would have made it back to his Common Room if not for _him_. But you..." She sighed, and shook her head - in vexation, he thought. "I don't know why I'm bothering to try and explain. Either you understand or you don't. There's things that are your fault, and there's things... you can't blame yourself for them. They had to do with other people's choices, not yours." She was silent for a moment, then said, very quietly, "Harry does that a lot, you know. Blames himself for what others do, I mean." He couldn't quite figure out what emotion her voice held.

"I think I understand," Draco said, more to stop her from going on than because he actually did. There was more to these words than just what had happened tonight, or that day he had let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts; of that he was certain. It was something else to be thought about, seriously, at some later point. But thinking of it now, here, might break him. "Come on," he said, forcing something like cheerfulness into his voice. "We have our last patient to attend to - he should be suitably frozen by now."

**References:**

Death by chocolate: 'Thief of Time' by Terry Pratchett

"Wasn't what she meant. Not at all.": "That is not it at all/That is not what I meant, at all." ('The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock', T.S. Eliot)


	10. Chapter 9

_Thank you to everyone who has been patient with this, and all of you who have reviewed. I apologize for not replying -- I've been somewhat swamped, of late, and while I appreciate your feedback immensely, I don't always have time to compose a proper reply. So, to everyone I haven't managed to properly reply to: thank you, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story. --Adali_

**Chaper Nine  
**_In which there is communication  
_Monday, December 4, 2017

A note to Freddie in response to the younger boy's own was all it took for Caradoc to gain access to the Gryffindor dormitories. There were a few curious glances as the first year boy led him through the Common Room, but for the most part he was ignored. He was just a Hufflepuff, after all: hardly worth noticing, really. Caradoc was well-aware of most of the students' low opinion of his House. While Gryffindors were brave and daring - and many of the best-known heroes from the War had been from Gryffindor - and Ravenclaws were intelligent and knowledgeable, and Slytherins were cunning and somewhat notorious, Hufflepuffs were just... Hufflepuffs. They were loyal and nice; the ones who fell through the cracks as far as the other Houses were concerned, which meant they tended to get along with people and fade into the background.

Which was just fine with Caradoc. Being amiable and harmless could open all sorts of doors when a person needed them opened and, right now, Caradoc needed to go through the door to the dorm for the second year Gryffindor boys. Freddie was happy to help, and no one else in the House raised any objections. Hufflepuffs, as Jimmy was wont to say, were vastly underestimated.

"I can't get anything out of him," Freddie said quietly, opening the dormitory door. "If I didn't bring him food back from meals, he probably wouldn't know he was hungry." Hearing the light-hearted Freddie sound so concerned, Caradoc knew he had been right to come.

He pulled back the curtains of the only occupied bed. Freddie hovered behind him, uncommonly anxious. Well, it was his cousin in the bed, after all - and besides, it was Jimmy. Nothing fazed Jimmy; except that something had, and he hadn't left his dormitory in almost two days as a result. The younger boy was huddled on his bed, wrapped in a thick patch-work quilt, seemingly made out of old scraps of cloth and clothing. Some of the squares had stains that looked suspiciously like old blood.

"Jimmy," Caradoc began, addressing himself to the dull red-brass hair that was the only visible part of the other boy. The quilt quivered, but there was no other response. "You've been missing classes." Jimmy looked up, his old, tired eyes meeting Caradoc's. "Esme's in a state. She says the teachers keep asking where you are."

"Car?" Jimmy didn't seem to believe he was really there, and was squinting as though trying to figure out if Caradoc was an illusion or a figment of his own imagination.

"In the flesh. Freddie had to call me because he couldn't get through to you." Caradoc didn't know why he should be able to reach Jimmy at a time like this, when he had pulled himself away from the world, but it seemed right. Caradoc wasn't brilliant at academics like Griflet, or in Society like Esme, but he was loyal and he genuinely cared about the younger boy, on top of the respect and awe that bound the others to Jimmy. Perhaps that was what Jimmy reacted to.

"What time is it?" His voice was flat, but Caradoc thought he might be a bit surprised.

"Almost five." And, because he was used to dealing with Griflet, he added, "On Monday."

Jimmy's eyes widened, and he looked at Freddie for confirmation. "You've been pretty out of it, mate," the red-headed boy confirmed. "You aren't upset they shipped Harry off to the Funny Farm, are you?" He didn't sound like he believed it for a minute. "It'll be good for Gin. Harry turned into a bit of a tosser after..." Suddenly, he closed his mouth with an audible click of teeth, and went very pale.

His cousin, not looking at all like a someone who'd just lost two days without noticing, moved over and patted the bed beside him. "Have a sit, Freddie," he suggested. His slight glance at Caradoc extended the permission to him as well. Freddie flopped down, obviously preoccupied by something he didn't like to think of, but which weighed on his mind. Caradoc sat himself on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch the quilt. "You're not mad, mate," Jimmy added. "There's just something you don't know."

Freddie scowled, but looked less shaken. "It's not like George to keep stuff from me. And this is important, too. I can feel it."

"We'll get it out of them sooner or later. Sooner, I think, now that Mum's tossed him back into the loony bin." Jimmy didn't sound at all sorry that his father had been sent to Saint Mungo's - for good, if the Prophet was to be believed.

"Why's that?"

"I'm betting she knows stuff she isn't telling me." Jimmy sounded quite aggrieved by this, as though it was a crime to keep knowledge of anything from him. Well, he was Jimmy, so maybe it was. Personally, Caradoc knew better than to try and keep anything from the younger boy. "Anyway," Jimmy sighed, "what's the news?"

"The Prophet's having a field day," Caradoc told him. "They ran a special on Harry Potter yesterday. It looks like they went into their archives and dug out everything they had on him from as far back as the first defeat of the Dark Lord. Really everything: they've got the Triwizard Tournament in there, and a whole bunch of stuff about how he was delusional."

"I think there's even some stuff from Witch Weekly," Freddie added, his normal cheer restored. "There's all this stuff about him and Hermione being a couple, too."

"What about Mum?" Jimmy asked, quietly, and in that simple question Caradoc saw what had so preoccupied the other boy that he'd lost track of the days. Freddie had mentioned that ever since Ginny Weasley had arrived to tell her children and their cousins that Harry Potter was going to Saint Mungo's, Jimmy had been in a state. It just wasn't, as the rest of the school thought, because he was upset that his mum was betraying his dad.

Caradoc hesitated, but not long - he couldn't have resisted telling Jimmy, even if he'd wanted to. "There's a lot of stuff about her, too. The special edition was just to highlight how Potter's been unfairly persecuted all his life, so they could say how he's now being betrayed by his wife."

He'd never seen Jimmy look so fragile as he did at that moment, as the boy buried his face in his quilt-covered knees. "I thought so," was all he said.

"They got a right rant out of Hermione, too, although there's a Letter to the Editor this morning where she took most of it back," Freddie added. He didn't look like he believed she'd recanted at all.

"And they got some idiot Healer quoted as saying he sees nothing wrong with Potter," said Caradoc. "It's all over the front page. There was a little snip in the back, where the Head of Irreversible Magical Maladies at Saint Mungo's said that they'd been aware of Potter's condition for some time, but they'd let him go because Healer Weasley asked them too."

"Either way, Gin's taking all the fall for this," Freddie said quietly. "Even after everything she's done."

"Where is she now?"

Caradoc exchanged glances with Freddie. "The Burrow, last I heard."

Finally, Jimmy looked up. "I need to make sure she's alright," he said. "You'll cover for me for a few days, right, and..."

"Steady on," Caradoc said, and Freddie grabbed Jimmy's arm and pulled him back down as he struggled to get up. "You've got teachers to appease, Jimmy. Your mum can take care of herself."

"But..."

Feeling like a traitor, Caradoc glared sternly at the boy. "She's taken care of that lot for years. Don't tell me you don't think she can take care of herself now."

"She'll sort them out, and then you'll hear from her," Freddie assured his cousin. "That's how Gin is, I promise. Jimmy," he added, "she'll go spare if she hears you're skipping out of classes."

At that, Jimmy cracked a lopsided grin. "Yeah, I guess she will. But if anyone hurts her, I'll kill them." Caradoc believed it with all his heart.

* * *

Although he had made amends with his family years ago, Molly's third son still rarely visited. He was always busy with work, or his partner's busy socialite schedule. He travelled extensively, to Prague and Moscow and Johannesburg; anywhere the Ministry had connections or wanted them. Percy - Percival, to all but his family - was a sleek, sophisticated man with a successful career and a world of connections at his fingertips. But to Molly, he would always be her little boy, the vaguely awkward one who disapproved of the slightly-illicit nature of his father's hobby, but worked extra hard in Muggle Studies to make up for it.

She was delighted when there was a chiming at the fireplace and, a few minutes later, he stepped out of the swirling green flames, fastidiously brushing a stray piece of ash from his ebony and midnight-violet robes. "Percy," she exclaimed, hurrying forward to meet him.

"Hello, Mum." His greeting was pleasant, but distant, and he wouldn't meet her eyes. "Is Ginny in?"

"In George's workshop, dear. Won't you have some tea? I'll go put some on now," Molly prattled on in delight. "I got some lovely scones from Mrs. Whittaker, you remember her don't you dear? Her arthritis is..." She'd missed having him around all these years, although she knew he was dedicated to his work. Still, even the Ministry gave their people time off to spend with their families.

Percy interrupted gently, but his voice was firm. "Mum."

"Yes dear?" He wouldn't have interrupted her when he was a child, but he had grown up so nicely that she didn't mind in the least. He was such a gentleman these days, and she really was prattling on, so she couldn't fault him if he wanted to get a word in now and again.

"I'm only here to see Ginny, and then I'll be going." Oh. That wasn't what Molly had been expecting to hear at all. She'd hoped her little boy would stay for a bit of tea and talk, at least. She did miss him dreadfully these days, and all the others would be sorry to have missed his visit.

Molly sighed, resigned to facing what she had hoped to avoid. "It's about Harry, isn't it? You can try to dissuade her - Merlin knows, we all have - but she won't see reason."

"I'm not here to dissuade her." Percy's frown was slight, but severe. Then his words overrode Molly's motherly pride at the man he had become. "I've come to lend her my support."

Percy understood about family, but sometimes he was a bit blinded by the rules, Molly knew. This was one of those times, and he'd understand that soon enough. "Family's about sticking together, dear. We can't abandon Harry like that."

"So you'll abandon Ginny instead." Percy's eyes were disturbingly dark, and Molly wondered if she hadn't said the wrong thing. "Fleur's in a state, you know, and I can see why. Ginny gave up her career for Harry, and now that she wants a bit of it back, her family turns on her."

"Now Percy, you know it's not like that." She reached out to put a soothing hand on his arm, but he brushed it aside.

"I was estranged from my entire family before, Mum. I'm not going to let that happen to Ginny. Not when she's right." He whirled and strode into George's workshop without another word. Slightly numb, Molly kept making tea. First they lost Harry, and now it looked like they might lose Percy was well. What was happening to her family?

* * *

Ten years ago she had loved her mirror. Eight feet tall, its three wide panels of perfect glass surrounded a raised podium, and the whole construction dominated one end of her dressing room. Some days, she had thought there was nothing in the world that she loved more than this mirror, especially when her baby was being difficult and her husband was being distant.

She was thirty-four now, and she thought the enchantment on her mirror must be starting to fade. No longer did it show her the young beauty she had once seen in its endless reflections: the woman that looked back at her had lines at the edges of her eyes, and a slight looseness to the skin on her neck. Her wrists looked thin instead of slender, and overall her shape looked... droopy, as horrible a word as that was. She'd have to talk to Mama and see what sort of charms she used, because Madame Destrier might be a grandmother, but she was still the last word in beauty, style and sophistication.

And Sabine absolutely _had _to be the most gorgeous woman in the room when she hosted her annual Christmas ball. Last year she had very nearly been outdone by that odious little wretch Gabrielle Delacour, who had sashayed into the ballroom on the arm of the Bulgarian ambassador as though she were some cheap call-girl. She was always doing things like that: appearing on the cover of Witch Weekly (with some unlikely tagline about philanthropy and a successful modelling career), cavorting about with this or that famous personage. Sabine could only find it in her heart to forgive the bint because it was all such an obvious cry for attention after being stuck in her glamorous older sister's shadow all those years. Sabine had only been in her first year when Fleur had entered the Triwizard tournament, but oh, how she had admired the older girl.

Gabrielle had the advantage in being a few years younger, but Sabine intended to show her what class meant. Let the girl strut about in her sparkly gold dresses: Sabine would command the room with her presence alone. This year's gala promised to be especially grand: everyone from the highest officials at le Ministère to Britain's top diplomat, dozens of well-known businessman, and all manner of cultural icons would be present. Everyone who was anyone would attend, something Sabine took great pride in.

She did hope Draco would actually attend this year, instead of simply poking his nose into the room for long enough that his absence would not create scandal. He claimed to be busy with work, but he was _always _busy with work. He could do with a rest, and she could do with some of his attention. It was all very well to be the belle of the ball, as it were, but it made not one bit of difference if her own husband could scarcely be bothered to give her a peck on the cheek. He was just so _distant, _and it interfered distressingly with Sabine's efforts in Society.

What she would do, she decided, was finish ordering her dress, make that fire-call to Mama, and then she would call Draco up at the office in London and insist that he be present for the entirety of her gala. He owed it to her, and he owed it to himself.

* * *

"Pomona?"

She'd been so wrapped up in reviewing the school's budget that she'd missed the little chime that announced her fire-calls. If her caller hadn't spoken up, she would probably have ignored them until the end of time. _Well_, Pomona thought, _I suppose my hearing isn't what it once was, either. _She left her desk and took the chair in front of the fireplace.

"Ginevra. Hello." Not if she lived to be a thousand would Pomona admit to being surprised to see Ginevra Potter's face in her fire, but she was. She'd made herself and Hogwarts freely available to the young woman, but been sadly aware that the girl's pride would likely stop her from availing herself upon them. "I'd ask how you are, but I think I can see."

Ginevra's smile was wan. Even in the flickering fire-image, Pomona could see the deep bruises of sleeplessness under her eyes. "It's been a trying few days," she admitted.

Pomona sighed. Some days, it seemed she couldn't speak to an old Gryffindor without seeing Minerva McGonagall's influence painted on them in bright red and gold. There was that wry twist of the mouth, the tired eyes, the flair for understatement, the barely-concealed impatience. Even Neville Longbottom, who had made Hufflepuff his home as much as Gryffindor had ever been, still looked back at her with Minerva's eyes, some days. Perhaps, Pomona thought sometimes, it was not Minerva but the War that had left such a deep mark on her old students; she hoped that was not the case. "What can I do for you today, Ginevra?"

The younger witch hesitated visibly. Why, Pomona wondered, was getting help considered such a cowardly thing, when it took so much courage to ask for it? She was convinced there was not a Gryffindor in all of Britain that could easily ask for assistance, even of an old friend. In that, the lot of them could learn a thing or two from the Hufflepuffs: that was what loyalty was about, after all.

Still Ginevra floundered. Pomona knew she could say something to help the younger woman express what was written so clearly on her face, but she would not. She had made the original offer, and now it was for Ginevra to accept, if that was what she wished. "I was thinking... perhaps, if you wouldn't mind... might I stay at Hogwarts... just for a time?" Her voice was quiet and uncertain, but it was enough.

Pomona gave her a radiant smile. "Of course, dear. Come along as soon as you're ready - before supper would be lovely, and then we can get you settled in."

"I..." Ginevra seemed at a loss. "I could help out in the Infirmary, if you like," she offered. For such a charitable woman, she seemed to have difficulties in accepting it herself. But that was that Gryffindor pride again, and there was nothing in the world that Pomona could say that would change it.

"That would be lovely. I'm sure Mrs. Comfit could do with the help: her bunions are paining her something awful these days, you know, and there's not a thing to be done for them."

At last Ginevra answered Pomona's kind smile with a timid one of her own. "I'm sorry to hear that. I'll try to be as much help as I can."

"Oh, none of that, dear. If Healer Weasley can't fix it, there's nothing can be done." She winked and then, as Ginevra started to protest, cut her off by adding, "I'll expect you at four, Ginevra. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm sure we both have much to do." She terminated the fire-call, feeling immensely pleased with herself. Ginevra was out of the living death that had been her life for these last thirteen years, Hogwarts would be helping an old student, and the Infirmary would be gaining the most competent Healer it had ever had. Pomona would leave the scheming to the Slytherins: this was how a Hufflepuff got things done.

* * *

One of the secretaries poked her head around the open door, knocking softly on it. "Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes?" He wished he could remember the secretaries' names, but they never stayed long enough for him to get around to it. He suspected it had to do with his assistant and her hell-or-high-water, work-all-hours approach, but since she was invaluable and the secretaries were replaceable, it would probably be a long time before he learned names.

"Ah, I think there's an owl for you, sir, only... well, it thinks it has the right place, at any rate." Then again, if this was the sort of help they were reduced to having, perhaps he needed to have a word with his assistant. Being able to get to the point was an absolute must for anyone who reported directly to him. This girl probably thought she was clever, too, putting a charm on her tongue bar so it couldn't be seen, but he could hear the slight slur to her speech that it caused. Perhaps a word with HR was in order, too.

"Does it, now?" he asked, trying to be patient.

The girl looked nervous. "Well, it's addressed to 'That Bloody Ferret, Malfoy'. Sir." By the time she finished, her terror was obvious. Likely the three secretaries had drawn lots to see who would have to deliver the missive, figuring anyone who called their boss that to his face would be out on their arse in two shakes of a wand.

"Give it here," he said, holding out a hand and turning back to the memo from the VP of Internal Operations - something about interdepartmental memos and inefficiency, but it took a long time to get to the point. The girl - she couldn't be more than ten years younger than he was, but he thought of her as a child - placed the scroll in his hand and scurried back to her desk.

Tossing the memo he'd been reading into the fireplace - after nearly a foot of writing, it turned out there _was_ no point - Draco opened the scroll. The scratchy, off-hand script that had become so familiar during study sessions his last year at school made two wandering lines on the parchment. _Off to Hogwarts to help in the Infirmary and sort things out. Be in touch. _It wasn't sighed.

With a sigh, he spoke the word that would reduce the parchment - yet another of WWW's gag products that had found use in serious business - to ashes. It was just like her to be so inexact when writing. Was she saying she would write again, or ordering him to keep in touch? Obviously, there were some things that could simply not be cured: Weasley's diction was one of them.

There was a soft chime, and a fire appeared in the office's small fireplace, bearing a face. Draco watched the memo from the his vice-president burn through Sabine's transparent features. "Draco, darling."

"Hello Sabine. All is well, I hope?"

"Of course, darling. But there _is _one matter I had hoped to speak with you about." _Bugger_, Draco thought. _Will it be the greenhouse, this time, or the footman? _He spent little enough time in Devant Manor that there was no reason for Sabine to consult him about anything to do with it; how should he know which of the butlers had been abusing the wine cellar when he couldn't find the front door without help? Sabine liked to keep him involved, though, so he tried. "My annual Christmas gala. I'd like you to attend this year." Her tone added, _for once. _

"Of course. I attend every year, Sabine." This with just a hint of reproach that he couldn't entirely erase. He found her guests tedious and the entertainments dull, but he'd known at the outset that he would have to endure them after he married Sabine. What irked him was her insistence that he take an interest, rather than simply going along with what she told him.

"I'd like you to stay for the entire thing this year, Draco." It was not a request.

He smiled. "I would be delighted." He would have been much more delighted if she ever invited a few of his friends, but he suspected that, as ever, Pansy, Greg and Blaise would all be conspicuously absent from the guest list this year. Sabine liked to have internationally recognized personages at her galas, but only so long as they weren't English war veterans, especially ones with shady pasts.

"I'm so glad, darling. Tell me, will you be coming home anytime before then?" Home, was it? Apparently she had returned from staying with her parents and was prepared to play nice, now that her Christmas ball was on the horizon.

"I don't think so. There's a lot to sort out before the holidays."

Sabine seemed genuinely disappointed. _She's probably lonely, now that Scorpius is gone_, Draco thought. But he couldn't find it in himself to return to keep her company. He cared about Sabine, but much in the same way he did Pansy: a close friend and sometimes confidant, but no more. She was not the woman of his dreams, for whom he would move heaven and earth; but then, he'd given up on that a long time ago.

"Oh," Sabine said, as though just remembering - which hardly seemed possible, since he was quite sure Sabine could recall everything she'd read or heard since she was nine. "I had a letter from _ma puce _yesterday. He'd like to bring a friend to stay for Christmas."

A small warning siren seemed to be going off in Draco's head, but he ignored it. "Oh?" he said, as politely as he could. "I'm sure that will be very nice."

"Yes. The boy might be a bit provincial, being English," she said apologetically, conveniently forgetting, as she always did, his own heritage, "but it will be very nice for Scorpius, I think. He says his friend cannot go home for Christmas, because of family problems." The way she said it, that last piece was supposed to be a secret. But if Scorpius's friend was who Draco suspected, then the boy's family problems were splashed all over the tabloids and papers anyway. "You will try to make him feel welcome, won't you?" she asked, worriedly.

"Of course. I understand. I look forward to meeting him." He didn't, actually: he wanted the boy to die horribly, although objectively he knew that it wasn't because of anything Albus Potter had done. It was just that it was easy to hate him for what his father had done to Ginny, unfair as it was to the boy.

Sabine smiled. "Since he's Scorpius's friend, I'm sure we'll all get along wonderfully." Draco wondered about that, but didn't comment. He got along quite well with Ginny's elder son, but he remembered what she'd said about the two boys always being on opposing sides. Somehow, Draco couldn't shake the feeling that he would be sharing Christmas with a pair that embodied all the worst character traits of himself and Potter in their school days, but presenting a united front.

There was a rap at the door: Draco's assistant had arrived to bring efficiency and productivity to his day. "I'm sorry, Sabine, but business calls."

"Of course, darling. Have a good day." It didn't look to be headed that way, but he wished her the same anyway.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**_  
In which they take a holiday, and an important question about Ron is answered_  
Saturday, December 19, 1998

"I'm pretty sure you missed the point somewhere," Ginny said, frowning at the boy standing next to her. "You're supposed to spend the hols with your family, not your enemies."

He gave her a bemused look. "We are family. See? Red hair, second-hand robes, not enough sense to go inside even though the weather is more frigid than McGonagall..."

Ginny choked. Of all the comparisons for him to make, he _would _choose the most disturbing one. Rather than let him continue in that vein and destroy her innocence completely, she retorted, "They're third hand, actually. Bill and Percy both had them before Ron."

Malfoy looked sick, but she was well enough used to his act to ignore it. "You mean _three _of your dirty, muggle-loving brothers have worn these before me?" As though it made the least bit of difference to him if they were second-hand or twelfth: they were used, and if he were in his right mind Malfoy would never wear used robes, or even borrowed ones, which these also were. Well, he'd never needed to until now, when he couldn't afford to look like the rich prick he was.

"I think Percy showers more often than you do, Malfoy. And I doubt Bill wore them very often." With that expression of bafflement on his face, he could have passed as Ron's twin. "He was too busy getting into the knickers of half the girls at Hogwarts." She wondered if Fleur knew about that. She'd thought about telling her sister-in-law, but that would have led to questions about how she knew, which would have meant admitting to hearing some stories from a drunk and heartbroken Charlie that had not been appropriate for her ten-year-old ears. She'd sympathized with Charlie over having the girl he loved turn out to be yet another notch on his older brother's belt, but lately she'd begun to think that maybe he should have told the girl how he felt before it came to that. Well, Charlie was shy and romantic — despite the incongruity of these traits in a dragon-keeper — which probably explained why he still didn't have a steady girlfriend.

Now Malfoy looked even greener, and it seemed like less of an act. "No wonder there's so many of you redheads."

"Right. And if we can't make more the traditional way, we use magic and change their hair." She poked him playfully in the shoulder, reminding him that he wasn't in any position to talk about poverty or unsightly red hair. "You said you wanted to go inside."

"You've got the bleedin' key," he snapped. Maybe they _should _go inside, Ginny thought — that might be an icicle hanging from the tip of his nose. Who'd have imagined Malfoy would be such a pansy when it came to the cold? With colouring like that, it looked like he was part polar bear.

She grinned, letting him suffer a little more as she took her time unlocking the door. He darted inside as soon as the door was open, and went flying arse over teakettle with a sound like a dozen cymbals. The curtains over Mrs. Black's portrait flew apart and she began her screeching litany of all the horrors that had befallen her house. Ginny slipped inside and shut the door behind her, a slight smile on her face. It didn't matter what terrible things happened outside, inside Number 12, Grimmauld Place it stayed just the same.

Kreacher came barrelling out of some hidey-hole at a speed that was very suspicious for an elf that appeared so old, crying out as he tried to sooth his poor mistress. In the midst of the din, Malfoy sat up and glared around at the place, with an extra helping of venom when his gaze lighted on the overturned troll-leg umbrella stand or the bloody-minded portrait. "Weasley, what the hell is wrong with this house?" he all but howled. They'd only just stepped through the front door, and already he was regretting his insistence on being a nuisance over the holidays. _Good, _Ginny thought with savage satisfaction.

"What do you think, Malfoy? She's _your _relative." Although she didn't say it loudly — at least not compared to the caterwauling of Mrs. Black, Kreacher, and Malfoy — all three of them heard her. It was like she'd just said a supremely effective silencing spell: all three of them shut up and stared at each other speculatively.

"I thought you said this place was Potty's," Malfoy said at last, not looking at Ginny. Most of his attention was focussed on the portrait, but he was keeping a wary eye on Kreacher, too. If Ginny hadn't known it to be beneath his dignity, she would have sworn he looked ready to bolt.

She sighed — she wasn't sure why she'd bothered explaining, when it had been so obvious he wasn't listening to a word she said. Now she had to repeat herself. "He inherited it from his godfather, Sirius Black."

"I'm pretty sure I'm related to him," Malfoy mused. Ginny rolled her eyes. "There's so deuced many of them," he continued. "Almost as many as the Weasleys."

"Thank you for that. He was your mum's cousin, by the way. Even _I _know that."

Now he did look back at her, and sneered. "That's because you want to marry into Potty's precious little family, so you have to pretend to give a nifler's nads about it. So who's the hag?" Too late, Ginny realized she should have warned him not to insult the portrait of Mrs. Black. Sirius always had, and it had _never _helped anything in the slightest.

"Scum! Blood-traitor! Filth!" the portrait began, and looked to be working herself up to another tedious session of screeching. Unable to stop herself, Ginny walked up behind Malfoy and smacked him on the head. He gave her a glare that said he didn't appreciate that at all, and would hex her soundly as soon as the current crisis was dealt with, then leant his head against her knee in that unaccountable way of his.

"That's Sirius's mum," Ginny said.

"That makes her..." Malfoy trailed off, but his lips kept moving as he worked through the family tree in his head. "My great-aunt, I think. Lovely."

It was almost impressive how the portrait heard his muttered discovery even whilst screeching at full volume herself. "There are no filthy Weasleys in _my _family tree."

"That's because you blasted them off the tapestry," Ginny snapped, before she could stop herself. "And he's _not _a Weasley." It was offensive to think a snobbish prick like Malfoy could ever be related to her. She grabbed her wand and removed the Colour Charm from his hair.

Walburga Black must have been part bull, Ginny decided. As soon as the red cape that was Malfoy's hair was returned to its pristine ferret whiteness, she calmed, although she still sent dagger-filled looks at Ginny ever few seconds. "I'm Draco Malfoy, by the way," Malfoy said cheerfully, now that his dead great-aunt was no longer screaming bloody murder at him. "I'd probably own this place if Potty had the decency to die."

Annoyed, Ginny gave his head a light shove with her knee, and was about to comment that then he wouldn't be able to come _here_, either, but Kreacher's excited wail cut her off. The scrawny house elf threw himself across Malfoy's lap and wrapped his arms around the boy's waist. "Master!" he cried, looking as overjoyed as though he'd been offered a place of pride on the old wall of mounted house elf heads.

Malfoy looked stricken. "Uh, yeah, now you can get off... let go... bugger off!" He bodily threw the house elf away from him and scrambled to his feet, placing Ginny between himself and the house elf who watched him with worshipful eyes.

"Malfoy, are you cowering behind me?" Ginny drawled, amused. She'd known that, realistically, there must be things that Malfoy was afraid of, but she'd never been able to figure out what they were. To think that house elves would be one of them — this promised to be endless entertainment.

"Not cowering," he corrected, managing to sound conceited and sulky at the same time. "Using you as an expendable shield while I make my getaway." Even though he couldn't see it, Ginny rolled her eyes. "Alright, fine, not my getaway, but are there any more nasty surprises I should know about?"

"I would have thought this was just like home for you, Malfoy. This way."

If anyone less refined had made that sound, it would have been called a snort. "Malfoys have taste when it comes to decorating." She noticed he was carefully not touching anything as she led him upstairs.

"Explains why there's so few of you... you're all bloody poofs." Even as the words came out of her mouth, she knew it was a low shot, the sort Ron would have taken. Malfoy grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around so quickly she almost fell. Standing like this on the stairs, their eyes were on the same level. She couldn't remember the last time Malfoy had glared at her this intently.

"It's because there's a curse on my family, Weasley. I am _not _a woofter." He dragged her forward by her collar until their faces were less than an inch apart. This close, she could see the network of tiny scars that webbed his face like misplaced laugh-lines, cut into his skin by the broken crystals of the falling chandelier when Harry had escaped from Malfoy Manor. She could feel his breath, hot and dangerous, on her lips; his grey eyes seemed suddenly deep, drawing in all the light in the room, and her with it. She swallowed involuntarily as her mind searched desperately for something she could say to him.

He flinched back abruptly and let go of her collar. Ginny dropped to sit on the stairs, shocked, and let her head fall against her knees. Malfoy stomped up the stairs past her. "I'm taking the room on the left," he announced, then marched into it and slammed the door behind him. A moment later he re-emerged, said, "On second thought, I'll take the other one," and stormed into the other room before slamming its door too.

_Bloody blazing hells, _she thought. _I knew I should have made him stay at Hogwarts._ As though things weren't already difficult enough, where he was concerned.

* * *

The corridors and dorms were as empty now as they had been during Christmas of Ron's second year, when everyone had been terrified of the Heir of Slytherin. At least it wasn't terror that made the parents desperate to have their children home this year: with memories of the last two years still raw and painful, people were holding on to what they still had with all their strength.

Ron knew, intellectually, that his mum couldn't be the only exception to that. Molly had been so shattered by Fred's death that somehow it seemed impossible for them to have a normal Christmas at the Burrow. She and his dad had gone off to Romania to visit Charlie in a vain attempt to pretend that that had been the plan all along, and it wasn't because she couldn't bear to sit around the supper table with all of them but Fred. Knowing all that didn't stop it from hurting.

Quiet footsteps behind him caught his attention, and delicate arms encircled him from behind. "You aren't smiling," Hermione said quietly. "It's the holidays, and I'm not even making you study. Shouldn't you be dancing through the corridors with your boxers on your head?"

Ron chuckled weakly. He'd only done that once, as she well knew. It had been at the end of sixth year, and with Dumbledore dead and Bill savaged and things seeming darker than they ever had before... it had felt good to float merrily through the corridors in a haze of Firewhiskey, singing Christmas carols even though it was June. Sometimes he wondered if that was how Luna felt all the time; if it was, he might have to start hunting Snorklacks too. "Where's Harry?" he asked, because even if it _was _the hols, and he didn't have to study, there was still that worry.

"Playing with Crookshanks."

"Playing with... Hermione." He turned in her embrace and tried to give her a stern look. "That demon cat doesn't _play _with anyone. It tortures people."

Hermione just shrugged, obviously too overcome with the joyous holiday spirit to defend her demon cat. "Alright then. He stole Harry's Quidditch jumper and is taunting him with it."

"That's more like it." The funniest part about it was that it really _was_. The demon cat was showing its inner evil, the world was conspiring against Harry in a way that resembled the bogus Divination predictions they'd made up for their homework, and Hermione was here to make sure he was behaving appropriately for the situation. Things couldn't get any more normal than this, unless Snape suddenly appeared and started handing out detentions. It was too bad Ginny wasn't here to share it with them. "Do you think Ginny's alright?"

Hermione sighed, but answered as patiently as she had the last half-dozen times he'd asked. "She's fine, Ron. She'll be back in a couple of days. She's only gone to Grimmauld Place, anyway, and there's enough protective enchantments on it that a legion of Aurors couldn't get in if she didn't want them to."

"I'd still feel better if we'd gone with her. I know, I know," he added, seeing Hermione's mouth tighten. "Harry couldn't take that right now. But it's my job to worry, right? I mean, I _am _her big brother."

Hermione snorted in a very un-ladylike fashion. "Your job, Ronald, is to beat the stuffing out of anyone who hurts her, and to help me keep Harry from killing my cat." _It would be that bloody beast's own damned fault, _Ron thought, but didn't say so. There were some things that Hermione would always be unreasonable about, and homework and that dratted cat featured prominently on the list.

"Fine. But if he wrecks my Quidditch kit, I'm on Harry's side."

She gave an exaggerated sigh, but couldn't hide her smile. "_Boys. _What is it about you an Quidditch?"

"_Girls,_" Ron returned with a mocking sigh. "What is it about you and demon cats?"

* * *

In the musty darkness of the bedroom, Draco Malfoy sulked. If it weren't for bloody Potter the Boy Wonder, he could have been at home having a proper Christmas with his parents. There probably would have been unopposed murder and mayhem going on outside as Death Eaters celebrated the holidays, but he wasn't too concerned with that. But no, Potter just had to go and save the wizarding world. Now most of the Death Eaters were languishing in the cells of Azkaban, a fate the Malfoys had only been spared because Narcissa had saved the Boy Wonder's life. Instead, the whole family had been placed under house arrest. Draco had been allowed to go back to Hogwarts, but he wasn't even allowed out on the grounds without supervision. It was maddening.

It was also why he was currently hiding in a second-floor bedroom in Potty's house, trying to avoid nutty house elves and nuttier witches. Who he'd almost kissed. Sweet Circe, _why _had he done that? He covered his face and tried not to groan. In a moment of insanity, it had seemed the quickest and surest way to convince her that he was only literally left-handed, and not figuratively as well. He could go to Azkaban for sneaking away from Hogwarts, but right now Saint Mungo's was looking like a more appropriate place for him. His only consolation was that, at the last moment, sanity had firmly reasserted itself.

He hadn't even been able to storm off appropriately, he thought morosely. The first bedroom he'd walked into had been completely decorated in pink and lace, with tasteless porcelain figurines on every available surface. He didn't want to consider what a room like that was doing in Potty's house. Maybe Scarhead hadn't decorated it himself, but it didn't look like he'd done anything to change it.

So here he was, sulking in a dusty, dark bedroom as though he, Draco Malfoy, were afraid to face his enemy. Which was patently untrue. He was just extremely angry about what she'd said, and didn't want to deal with her right now. Although if he were angry, as an enemy he ought to be plotting revenge, not sulking. And as an enemy, there should have never been any compulsion to kiss her. That wasn't the way things worked. He punched the headboard in frustration. His perfect enmity was turning out to be far from perfect and, he was afraid, possibly far from enmity as well.

He should have stayed at Hogwarts. He'd have to put up with his idiotic Housemates, and those suspicious looks from the Golden Trio, but he wouldn't have to see Weasley all the time. Or break his parole and risk being carted off to Azkaban, but that was a minor worry compared to facing his enemy all the time when he was no longer certain he hated her. And now he was stuck in this musty bedroom with his unfortunate epiphany, because if he went looking for something to distract him, he might run into the cause of those unsettling thoughts. Draco punched the headboard again, because it made him feel a bit better.

It would have been easier to go to Durmstrang like his parents had wanted him to — or given up on schooling entirely, since he'd never have to work for a living anyway. That promise to Snape hadn't really been a promise to come back to Hogwarts, anyway, just a promise to think about his future before he gave up on his education. Snape had been loyal to Hogwarts, and look where that had landed him. Draco grunted in frustration and hit the headboard for a third time. He couldn't even lie convincingly to himself. He'd respected Snape, but that stupid promise had had almost nothing to do with his decision to come back.

In the past few months, Draco had watched his parents and all his family's friends throw away their dignity in a vain effort to hold on to a little of what they had. Those vindictive bastards at the Ministry and in the lobby groups wanted to see all former Death Eaters on their knees, begging for their freedom, before they were tossed in Azkaban anyway. They'd done the same under Voldemort, although what they'd begged for had been their lives and his favour, not their freedom.

Then they would turn around and tell anyone who listened about the pride and superiority of Purebloods. Draco had watched his parents plead to be allowed to stay at the Manor while their future was decided, and it had dawned on him that he had nothing to be ashamed of. Despite the stigma attached to his name, his crimes had been relatively small, and would have earned him no more than a metaphorical slap on the wrist if he'd been anyone else. He would apologize for his crimes, he'd decided, but not his name.

That was why he'd taken Snape's suggestion and returned to Hogwarts. He was a talented wizard whose family had been wizarding nobility since the days of William the Conqueror, and he had his pride; he would not run away, nor would he allow those petty sons of trolls to hound him as they wished.

_Where's your pride now? _something inside him sneered. _Running away like a coward._

Draco thumped the headboard one more time — it really was such a soothing feeling — and stood. He would show them all that he, Draco Malfoy, was not a coward, but a force to be reckoned with — as long as he didn't run into that crazy house elf while he did.

* * *

"Come _on_, Score, stop being such a chicken. No one's going to recognize you."

"Because your hollering like a wounded hippogriff is completely inconspicuous," Draco snapped, but grudgingly peeled himself from the shadow of the archway that led into Diagon Alley from the back of the Leaky Cauldron. "And that's not my name."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Because there's so many wizards our age named..." She wouldn't have said it anyway, but the hand he clamped over her mouth shut her up. For a fleeting second, she toyed with the idea of biting him, but then he'd kick up such a fuss that people actually _would _notice them. She settled for grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand away. "And just what is wrong with the name Scorpius, anyway? I think it suits you." _Nasty, poisonous little crawler, and in Latin because he's an elitist. It suits him even better than his real name, _she thought, although in truth she'd only picked it because she knew it would annoy him. Seeing his venomous glare whenever she called him 'Score' was just the icing on the cake.

"Keep it up and I'll have to start calling you Brunhilda," he retorted, pulling his hand away. "It's bad enough that I have to go around with red hair and the Weasel King's robes without that embarrassment of that name too."

"You could have stayed at the house," Ginny said, well aware that he would never have even considered it. Malfoy was as bad as the twins had always been with his compulsive need to flout authority. It was probably a big part of the reason he'd insisted on tagging along when she decided to go to Grimmauld Place, rather than obeying the terms of his parole and staying at Hogwarts.

"Bugger that," he said succinctly, before heading into the crowd of shoppers that filled Diagon Alley. "Hurry up, _cousin, _I'd hate to lose you."

Fighting back the urge to laugh, Ginny hurried to catch up with the newly-christened Scorpius Weasley, who was, if anyone thought to ask, visiting from northern Canada (Malfoy had, for some reason known only to himself, refused to pretend to be American). Ginny figured she'd wait until they were back at Grimmauld Place before telling him that almost no one lived in northern Canada, and anyone who did probably wasn't such a pansy when it came to the cold. At some point, she might also mention that his drawling, upper-class accent was out of character, but for now she'd sit back and enjoy the farce that was Malfoy-in-disguise. "Don't you want to know where we're going before you rush off?" she asked.

His glare said, quite clearly, that it was too cold out for her to be dawdling like this. "Fine, where are we going?"

"You wouldn't know where it is anyway, _Scorpius, _since you've never been here before." The heat of his glare warmed her heart and filled her with generosity and Christmas spirit. Really, he was so much fun to tease.

But he was obviously freezing, so she took a small amount of pity on him. "We're going to Madame Malkin's."

"You dragged me out in this hellish weather, and these disgusting crowds, to go dress shopping?" he demanded.

Through dint of enormous will, Ginny refrained from pointing out that she hadn't dragged him anywhere and, besides, 'hellish weather' would be a lot warmer than this. "I need to pick up Charlie's Christmas present. Ron, George and I all chipped in to get him a set of fire-proof robes." She didn't mention that George had put in a contribution from Fred as well, and talked about it as though his twin was just in the other room and would be back any minute.

Malfoy visibly restrained himself from making a comment about their need to chip in on a gift. "He's a worse spell-caster than that Irish twit Finnegan, is he?"

"Charlie works with dragons," Ginny retorted. "And Seamus hasn't burned his eyebrows off in years."

"Just set light to the entire Charms classroom a couple of times."

There wasn't really anything Ginny could say to that, because Seamus _had _set the entire Charms classroom on fire twice during his sixth year, and once more in seventh. It was a bit odd, really: according to Dean, Seamus could have been in the top ten in his year if it weren't for his difficulties with anything involving fire. Her ex-boyfriend had always joked that it was all because of Seamus's fiery Irish temper.

"Bollocks," Malfoy hissed, interrupting her thoughts. Ginny glanced at him, then followed his gaze to the sandy-haired young man that was making his way through the crowd towards them. Seamus had already spotted them, and was grinning and waving. "What's the twit doing here?"

"Hush," Ginny whispered. "Scorpius doesn't know him, remember?"

"Scorpius can already tell he's a twit," Malfoy retorted before falling silent. Ginny stepped forward to meet Seamus, partially shielding Malfoy, who attempted to hide behind her without looking like he was hiding. _Who's the real twit, Malfoy? _she thought, but without venom.

"Ginny, lass," Seamus shouted happily, sweeping her up in a hug with far more familiarity than he ever had at Hogwarts.

"Hallo, Seamus," she said, returning the embrace only a little bit awkwardly. She'd always been fond of Seamus, and they'd gotten along well, but their closest association had always been through Dean.

He set her down, and Ginny noticed his apprehensive glance at her (temporarily) red-haired shadow. "This'd be..."

"My cousin, Scorpius," Ginny said, suddenly worried that the boy would recognize Malfoy through his thin disguise. She was about to mention the improbable part about visiting from the land of the polar bears, but Seamus had already started down a different track.

"He's not about to rough up an old pal of yours, just for being friendly-like, is he?" he asked, trying to sound casual and failing.

Ginny frowned. "My brother didn't ever..." His slight flinch was all the confirmation she needed. "Drat Ron."

"Weren't Ron, much," he muttered. "The twins were the ones who..." He broke off suddenly, going a bit pale. "I'm sorry, Ginny, I didn't mean to bring up... er, that is, I'm really sorry about..."

She patted his arm. "It's alright, Seamus." Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Malfoy fidgeting, clearly wanting to leave but not about to do so by himself. "I miss Fred, but I don't mind talking about him."

"Ah, that's good then," he stammered, obviously relieved. "Bugger, that's my mum calling. Got to dash, but it was lovely to see you. You don't mind if I pop by for a visit next time I'm in the area, do you?"

"I'd like that," she assured him. "And I'm sure Harry and Ron would be very happy to see you too." His face twisted a bit oddly at that, but he didn't make a comment. After another quick hug he dashed off through the crowds, calling a farewell over his shoulder.

"Twit," Malfoy declared, as soon as Seamus was out of earshot.

Ginny glared at him. "He is not."

"Can we go, please? It's cold," he said plaintively. "And he is."

"I don't see what he ever did to you," Ginny commented, as she started off towards Madame Malkin's again. "I mean, he ignored you just there, but that just means people aren't likely to recognize you. And you deserve to be ignored once in a while, anyway."

"I was ignoring him, not the other way around," Malfoy said archly. _He can't _not _be an arse, can he? _Ginny thought. "And he's a twit because that's what he is, not because he did anything to me."

"And you're an arse."

"Only because I work really, really hard at it. I promise I can be charming if I want."

"Only in comparison to a basilisk," Ginny said. But he was making her laugh again, damn him, so maybe he could be a bit charming after all. She hoped he'd stop it soon, before she forgot that he was her enemy, and a complete arse besides.

* * *

Right at the moment, a very large part of him was glad he looked nothing like his usual self. If anyone were to see Draco Malfoy like this, with his ears and nose red from the cold and his hair frosted with snow, he would never be able to recover his dignity. But no one expected Scorpius Weasley to be anything more than a commoner, so his dignity remained intact. He still wished they could go inside to warm up, though, because even if he was a Weasley, Scorpius had enough sense to come in out of the cold.

Not so Ginny Weasley, it seemed. She seemed quite content to be standing out here in the darkening gloom, surrounded by the blowing snow, chatting with yet another of her insufferable Housemates. The boy was small enough to be a goblin, and equally odious with the way he was hopping about, brandishing a camera larger than his head.

"Please, Ginny, please?" he pleaded. Draco felt the overwhelming urge to find the boy's parents and tell them not to allow their son to have anymore sugar, ever again. Watching him jump and fawn around Weasley was like watching a squirrel with a twitch circling a nut it desperately wanted.

Weasley shook her head once again. "I'm sorry, Dennis, but we'd rather not. I'm sure there's lots of other things you can photograph for practice."

"They're not as interesting. I mean, you're Harry Potter's girlfriend, and..."

Draco wasn't interested in hearing what other crowning achievements Weasley had to her name. "Let's go, Weasley," he snarled, catching her elbow to lead her away. He realized belatedly that he should have used her first name, although it wasn't as if he gave an ashwinder's arse what this little piss thought. _Thinking she's special just because she's Scarhead's girlfriend... _he wasn't sure what annoyed him so much about that. Perhaps it was that old annoyance: that anyone associated with Saint Potter was automatically better than the rest of them. Maybe it was the implication that the most important thing about Weasley was that she was Potty's girlfriend: what would that say about him, then, since he was her enemy? Or perhaps it was simply that Weasley was _not _Potty's girlfriend: she was much too good for that mad tosspot.

"Ginny," the boy whined. Draco looked over his shoulder, preparing to give the little bleater some choice words. He had an instant to register Weasley doing the same before there was a blinding flash of light.

The midget bastard lowered his camera. "Thanks, Ginny," he said with a smile that seemed completely oblivious to the two murderous glares directed at him. He turned and skipped off through the crowds.

"I'm going to kill him," Weasley muttered darkly. "And the Wizengamot can suck toads if they think to put me in Azkaban for it."

"They'll probably give you a medal," Draco answered. She didn't laugh, but she came close enough to smiling that Draco was sure that he, at least, would probably survive the backlash of her temper.

* * *

A glance at the clock showed Neville it was almost eleven. With a slight frown, he closed his book and started collecting the pile of plates that sat around his potting bench. How had it gotten so late without him noticing? He'd come in just after breakfast, and all those empty plates suggested he must have eaten a couple of meals, but it still felt as though he'd only been here for an hour or two. He hadn't even noticed it when it got dark, and he was in a greenhouse, of all places. Another few years and he'd be as dotty as his old professors. His frown melted into a soft smile at the thought. Perhaps 'dotty' wasn't the right word; 'dedicated' was more respectful, and perhaps more accurate.

He wouldn't mind being a professor at Hogwarts some day. He'd like to do some field work first — get out of the greenhouses and into the remote jungles — but he could easily see himself spending years pottering about the Hogwarts greenhouses as Professor Sprout had done. Under her careful eye, the school greenhouses had flourished, and were now second in the isles only to the private domain of an eccentric Manx wizard. Neville thought that, given time and a bit of money to build an extra greenhouse or two, the Hogwarts greenhouses could be some of the best in the world. Provided, that is, the school never again saw the like of the Weasley twins, who could have brought the project crashing down for a lark.

Thoughts of the school made him wonder how Harry and the others were getting on. He'd heard that Harry and Ron still flew for the Gryffindor team, and had been meaning to go see a game for old time's sake. Perhaps he should write to Hermione (the most likely to respond) as he'd been meaning to. Friendships were very much like plants, after all — they required maintenance and watering, and sometimes a firm word about sneaking out at night (although the Hutchinson's Running Ivy was behaving itself much better these days).

Balancing his book and his dishes — how _had _he eaten so much without noticing? — Neville resolved to take care of that, right after he had a word with Gran about letting him get so lost in his studies. A very respectful word, that was.

* * *

"I wouldn't sleep in there, if I were you." Weasley poked her head through the open doorway.

Draco yelped and snatched his towel down from drying his hair, trying to cover his bare chest. He would later attempt to deny both the yelp and the instinctive modesty, and Weasley would have the kindness to let it go with a minimum of sniggering and snide remarks. "Merlin's balls, don't you knock?"

"The door was open," she informed him, as though that meant she could prance in whenever she felt like it. "Oh, how did you manage to get that shower to work? I thought we'd tried everything."

"Did you try _telling _it?" he sneered.

Her mouth twisted oddly. "Yes, I suppose asking nicely won't work for much in this house, will it?" There was that look again, the one she always wore when she thought he was being a stupid, stuck-up git.

"Just because it's Potty's house now doesn't mean it's all fluffy rainbows and hugs," he snapped, once again proving that he was exactly the kind of git she thought he was. "Now can you get out so I can put on a shirt?"

She shrugged, absolutely unconcerned, and leaned against the doorframe in a way that clearly said she wasn't going anywhere. "Malfoy, half of Hogwarts has seen you without a shirt. You can't expect me to believe you have any modesty." It should have been true, but for some reason Draco really didn't want her to see him like this. _It's because you look like a commoner, _a part of his mind sneered, even as the rest acknowledged that maybe he didn't want her to compare him to the Boy Wonder. Draco Malfoy might be superior to the Prat Who Lived in every other regard, but he was willing to bet that Weasley preferred the Saviour of Worlds's bare chest to the Ferret's pale, hairless one. Which was a stupid thing to be concerned about, really, so he tossed the towel aside as though he didn't give a shrake's scrotum about who was watching.

"And you decided to come make a pest of yourself, why, exactly?" he asked, waving the wardrobe open. He'd been planning to sleep without a shirt as he usually did, but if she planned to be hanging around for a while, he was going to put one on. But only because he felt like it.

"I figured you might prefer one of the clean rooms upstairs. We never got around to cleaning out the ones on this floor."

She could have told him that before he'd moved in here, he thought. Or at least before he'd spent hours putting up with the dust and unpleasantness. "Wouldn't it have made more sense to clean the convenient ones first?"

"We tried. That bloody house elf would come and put all the dust back so that everything was just the way his crazy old mistress left it."

"Sounds like that elf's as barmy as Scarhead. They're a good match."

She frowned. "Don't call Harry crazy."

"It's what he is," Draco said with an easy shrug, although he felt a bit unsettled. He meant it as a joke, but he'd begun to suspect over these past few months, just from what Weasley let slip, that the Boy Wonder might not, in fact, be playing with a full deck. The tightness around her mouth just now — and when had he learned to read her so well, anyway? — told him she thought so, as well. He sighed. "Look, I..." He floundered.

The corner of her lips twitched towards a smirk — _his _smirk, dammit — and he knew he was forgiven, although he wasn't sure why. "Malfoy, was that you trying to apologize?"

"No," he told her, with as much dignity as he could muster. "That was... you stole my smirk, dammit. You're not allowed to do that." There it was on her face, as arrogant and coldly amused as he knew his own to be. It was slipping, though, falling towards genuine laughter that made her eyes sparkle.

"My smirk is much prettier than yours," she informed him, before her composure failed completely and she started giggling.

Sensing an argument he wasn't going to win — and which might end with him being forced to sleep in this dusty old room — Draco opted to take the moral high road and let this go. "Let's see this other room, then."

"Fine. It's this way. And put a shirt on, Malfoy — I don't want to be blinded by your pasty white chest."

_Then stop looking at it,_ Draco thought, before deciding not to examine that thought too closely. Theirs was a purely hostile relationship, and he intended for it to stay that way.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven  
**_In which there is healing_  
Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Ginny woke early and, as she always did, spent a moment lying with her eyes closed, enjoying a private moment of peace. Then, for a brief, horrible moment the absolute silence scared her, and she had half-way rolled over to make sure nothing had happened to Harry before she realized that of course she wouldn't hear his breathing.

She let her eyes fall closed again, although she could still see her surroundings in her mind. The whitewashed walls and polished wood floor were more in keeping with a cottage by the sea than a castle. The white armchairs, with their pattern of light blue sprays of heather, lacked any of the grandeur that was so typical of Hogwarts. The curtains were drawn back, allowing the thin sunlight of the winter dawn in to add a golden glow to the room. Everything whispered of tranquility and rest, so perhaps it should be no surprise she had slept as well as she had.

Her mind's eye caught on one of the chairs next to the small fireplace. Less than a week ago she had woken in this very bed, only to find him asleep in that very chair. It had been at once familiar and strange: familiar, thinking back to all the times she had awoken with him nearby; strange, to feel the gulf that had opened between them over the years. They had not thought themselves innocent at the time, had felt jaded far beyond their years, but still they had curled together like children, seeking the comfort of having someone nearby. Perhaps it had not been their marriages that had kept them apart that night last week; perhaps it had been remembrance of the weight of the sins that had torn that innocence from them.

There was no time for those sorts of reflections right now: a pounding on her door demanded her immediate attention. There was only one person it could be, to make such a racket at this hour of the morning. "Enter," she called, and smiled as her son all but fell through the door when it obligingly swung open.

He was a bit taller now, and his voice just a hair deeper as he tottered on the cliff's edge before puberty, but the way he said "Mum" and scrambled onto the bed next to her was just the same as it had always been. His pale-copper hair stuck up in a static halo, just as it had when he was two and running about in those ugly orange pyjamas that Ron had given him. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and hugged her, just as he always had, and she returned the embrace. "Mummy," he whispered, although she didn't think he'd meant to say it out loud. "I'm sorry, I had detention last night, or I would have come to see you sooner."

She patted his head. His fine hair refused to lie flat, and fluffed up again as soon as her hand left it. "It's alright, darling. Pomona — Professor Sprout — helped me settle in just fine. And it's not like I've never been here before," she added, the twinkle in her eye daring him to call her old and forgetful. He couldn't think of anything to say to that, and scowled, looking for a moment very much like his father. "It should be time for breakfast soon," she said hastily, suddenly feeling a desperate urge to avoid that scowl, or anything else that reminded her of his father. "Give me a few minutes to get ready, and we'll go, alright?"

Jimmy looked at her searchingly. "Are you sure you're alright, Mum?"

"Of course," she promised, making a shooing motion. "Don't worry so much: you'll get old before your time. Now get, I need to shower."

* * *

Growing up, he'd heard all sorts of stories about Hogwarts. Some of them, mostly the ones about the War, were quite epic, though rarely told. But for the most part, they were off-hand comments of the 'when you get there' variety. The ones his father and uncles told painted an idyllic picture of a teenage boy's paradise — unique magics, secret legends, and all sorts of scrapes that fell just on the far side of 'against the rules'. The ones his mother told were far less pretty, and tended to focus on the cold, the ugly decor, and the heavy food. But then, Fleur had always been a bit biased against Hogwarts.

For the most part, Fabian agreed with his father: Hogwarts was fabulous, and there were all sorts of fun things a boy could get up to, as long as he kept his wits about him when he decided to bend the rules. There were, however, a couple of things which he could very happily do without. One of those was Quidditch practices at five in the morning, just because the team captain thought heads were clearer early in the morning. Another was porridge.

"But it's extremely good for you," Rosie was saying. The Gryffindor table was empty — and little wonder, at this time of the morning — so she'd come to sit with him and Griflet.

"Gloop," Fabian said morosely, staring down at the bowl of beige _stuff _that his little cousin had ladled out for him. He'd come in from practice hoping for sausages that swam in grease and bacon that was entirely crunchy bits, and instead he got porridge. He smacked it experimentally with the back of his spoon. It made a wet sort of sucking noise that was just so typically _porridge._

"You're an athlete," Rosie told him severely. "You have to mind your diet and eat nutritious foods." It sounded, Fabian thought, like someone had unwisely left a pamphlet on healthy eating where Rosie could find it, and she'd sat down and memorized it as though there was going to be a test.

On his other side, Griflet dumped a large helping of pumpkin juice into his own porridge. "Plop," he said cheerfully. He seemed wide awake, which suggested to Fabian that he'd once again lost track of the time; the stupid blighter probably thought it was lunch time.

"That's disgusting," Rosie said, wrinkling her nose. It definitely was, Fabian thought, but it still looked more appealing than his portion. At least Griflet's had some colour to it.

"Food groups," the boy answered, and added a sausage to the mix without bothering to cut it up. "It's all the same inside, anyway." He reached for the milk, and Fabian began to hope this was another one of Griflet's strange jokes. If the other boy actually ate that, Fabian was going to have trouble keeping his own breakfast down.

"The pumpkin juice will curdle the milk." The level voice froze Griflet's hand an inch from the jug. Fabian twisted in his seat to see James approaching the table, Aunt Ginny a half step behind. "Use cheese," James added. If Fabian had been the one to say that, Griflet would have protested, and by the time they'd reached a compromise that involved mashed cheese and butter, the porridge would have been cold — that sort of thing had happened often enough that Fabian had no doubt of it. But, amazingly, Griflet's hand went unerringly to the cheese plate, and he dropped four chunks of the stuff into his bowl without a word.

Fabian decided to avoid the headache that would surely come of trying to puzzle out what had just happened, and turned to his aunt instead. "Morning, Aunt Ginny. Or... would it be Madam Potter, now?" He was happy to have his aunt here, and he knew his mother was ecstatic about it — she'd been so excited that she'd jumped back and forth between languages, sometimes in the middle of sentences, in the owl she had sent him last night — but addressing her as a teacher was going to take some getting used-to.

"It's Healer Weasley, actually," his aunt said, sliding into the place across from him. James, looking a bit like he never wanted to let her out of his sight again, sat next to her — but then, he'd always been such a mama's boy, had James. Not that Fabian would dream of saying it to his face. "'Madam' is for matrons. Is that all you're going to eat?" she added, eyeing his half-eaten porridge.

Fabian shot a baleful look at Rosie, who pretended not to notice. "Apparently I need to eat nutritious foods," he told her.

Aunt Ginny rolled her eyes, something Fabian had never seen her do before. It made her look very like his father. "You're Bill's son. You don't need nutritious food, you just need lots," she told him. With the efficiency that came from raising a whole brood of children, she filled a plate with cheese, sausages and fruit. "And put some sugar on that cereal, it makes me sick to look at it."

Grinning a little, Fabian did as he was told. He liked this Aunt Ginny a lot better than the tired woman with the sad eyes that had been puttering around the kitchen whenever he visited the Burrow. He was also starting to understand why his mother had been so happy that Aunt Ginny had come to Hogwarts, despite her personal dislike of the school.

"That's not good for him, Aunt Ginny," Rosie said severely, looking at their aunt with eyes filled with reproach. James shot her a nasty look, and she flinched a little, but didn't back down. "A healthy diet consists of..."

"Gloop!" Griflet declared, dropping an apple into his porridge, splattering it across the table. Fabian saw his aunt's eyes widen a little. He also noticed that the porridge had splashed on Griflet's robes, and realized with a sinking feeling that now he'd have to convince the other boy to change them before class. "I needed another serving of fruits or vegetables," he added, addressing himself to Aunt Ginny and speaking as though this was the most reasonable thing in the world.

Rather than seeming alarmed or put-out, Aunt Ginny actually looked interested. "Why did you need to put it in the porridge, though?" _Well, _Fabian allowed, _Aunt Ginny's used to dealing with nut jobs. _Most of the Weasley family seemed to fit that description, after all.

"This way I only get one dish dirty."

"You freak!" Rosie cried. "You got them all dirty. You splashed porridge everywhere!"

Aunt Ginny looked at her, and Fabian thought he saw her sigh a little, as though Rosie was the troublesome one, not Griflet. "Except for that, he's right," she said. There was, for just the briefest moment, an unholy twinkle in her eye that was reminiscent of Freddie or Uncle George.

"He's _insane_," Rosie said, as though that made the least bit of difference. Griflet might have a strange sense of reality, Fabian thought, but his interjection had named healthy foods for what they were: gloop.

"It's really about the food groups, especially at your age," Aunt Ginny went on, as though she hadn't heard. "And good food doesn't have to taste bland."

Rosie spluttered. "But the pamphlet said..." _Dammit, _Fabian thought. He'd been right about Rosie's source.

"That's enough," James growled, fixing Rosie with a glare. Whatever she had been about to say died in her throat, and she suddenly became very interested in her porridge. "Grif," he added. The older boy looked up, his eyes shockingly intense. It was a look Fabian rarely saw: the one Griflet wore when the War was discussed. "Remember to change your robes after this. You have porridge on them."

"Yes Jimmy," Griflet said, and somehow Fabian was certain that, for once, he wouldn't forget.

"And Grif?" That intense gaze swivelled from James to Aunt Ginny, startling Fabian — he'd never seen Griflet respond if anyone but himself or James used the boy's first name. "Apples don't need plates."

"Yes Healer Weasley."

* * *

"I'm not insane, you know," he said conversationally. It was the first time Helen had heard him speak since he'd arrived, and it startled her so badly she dropped her clipboard. She scrambled to pick it up and then, clutching it as though it might spring from her grasp again at any moment, faced her patient.

He was regarding her levelly, his eyes seeming like nothing so much as icebergs, frozen and fathoms deep, as inappropriate as the comparison was for eyes that were such a startling green. His black hair was tousled and in want of cutting. Despite his dishevelled appearance, she couldn't remember ever having a patient with such composure as he showed right now: it wasn't something you encountered often in this ward.

"Sir, you..." Even as she began, she felt the protest die on her lips. What could she possibly say to this man, who was no less personage than Harry Potter himself, that wouldn't sound like a lie in this situation? For a brief moment, the combined clout of the Prophet special edition and that deep gaze caused her conviction to waver. "You're sick," she managed at last.

He settled himself more comfortably against his pillows. "I'm not sick." He paused, and the silence stretched between them like a vast and frozen ocean that she couldn't imagine how to cross. "I'm broken."

"Sir," she began again, and again the words would not come.

"A sickness can be cured." His tone was still conversational, but those green eyes held something so terrible and heartbreaking that she couldn't begin to understand it. "Ginny is sick, you know." Helen felt something in her heart contract. _Not Healer Weasley... _surely there could be nothing in the world that her idol could not cure. "It's a sickness of the heart, I think," he mused, and though his gaze was still locked with hers, she felt that he was looking somehow through her, or perhaps inside her. "Perhaps she can heal, now."

Helen felt her heart constrict again, this time for him. There were words just beyond her grasp, ones that were soothing and compassionate, and even as she tried hopelessly to capture them so that she could speak, he smiled. It was a terrible, tragic smile, such as she had always imagined Lucifer must have smiled in his last moment as an angel, when he was still filled with grace but saw how broken he was. It was a smile of loss and regret too great to imagine, but without bitterness. For Lucifer, the bitterness had come later, so her village priest had always said, and with it had come the anger. She didn't know what would come next for Harry Potter, but the prospect of his fall terrified her.

"But I'm broken. The dead should never return."

She wasn't sure how much more of this she could listen to. His words were so heavy, but his voice didn't match them at all, and the difference between the two filled her heart with ice. She wanted to draw away, to flee the room and rush back to her desk, where she would write 'patient is in stable condition' on the form, just as she had every day before. "Sirius shouldn't have come back. I shouldn't have brought him back. And my parents..." He was crying now, crystal tears sliding slowly down his otherwise-calm face. Suddenly he seized up, contracting violently into a huddle. A keening that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him rose up, then climbed to a werewolf's howl.

Helen fled.

* * *

One of these days, someone was going to realize it. Actually, someone already had, but he hadn't said anything and likely never would. But someday soon, someone else was going clue in, and when they did they'd accused Neville of being a suspicious bastard. And he was — oh, Merlin, was he ever — and the only real surprise was that no one but James Potter had noticed.

Neville was good-natured and friendly, but he wasn't an idiot. He got along well with people because he had a natural sense for what made them tick. He would never have dreamed of exploiting it, as a Slytherin might, but it was a gift he made use of — mostly because it told him when something was up. It was how he'd always known when Harry and the others had been sneaking around and losing them House points — even if he hadn't always spoken up about it. Or if one of the first years was looking a bit guilty, and there was a giant pile of broken pottery, Neville knew better than to fly into a rage over the poor child's clumsiness. Instead he would gently invite the child around for a bit of tea after class, and 'how is your mother these days', and perhaps a bit of 'I'm very sorry to hear that, and I hope she feels better soon.' It would have been a vast overstatement to say that he knew everything that went on in Hogwarts's hallowed halls — but he _did _know that there was an awful lot he didn't know about, and tried to act accordingly.

Especially when there were clues.

It was a bit like making a potion, really: most people tossed in a slug's heart and some hen's teeth, and out came a Vanishing Cream. Neville tossed them in, spilled a bit of asphodel, and one giant explosion later had a Draught of the Living Dead created out of all the wrong ingredients, and in a completely irreproducible fashion. In other words, it was the little things all shoved together in a haphazard way that was uniquely his own, out of which came an answer which was startling and unexpected, but not wrong (unless Snape was doing the grading, in which case it never had a chance of being right to begin with).

_She_ had hesitated, when he'd asked if he should invite Malfoy along to the Three Broomsticks. Then she'd smiled, but her eyes had been just the littlest bit fearful and sad — but not hateful in the least. He'd wondered if there was a story there, but there were so many stories, and so many of them painful, that he'd resolved never to ask.

_He_ hadn't hesitated, when her glass was empty. He'd picked up the bottle that had sat in the middle of the table and refilled it and his own as though it were the most natural act in the world. When Bletchley had asked him to pass the bottle later, he'd sneered and told him to get it himself.

She had called him 'Draco', but only after she was prompted to do so. At one point, she had called him 'Slytherin', after stumbling over the first sound as though she had been about to say something else.

He hadn't called her 'Ginny'. Despite hours of conversation, Neville hadn't heard him call her anything at all.

She'd flinched when Bletchley mentioned Scorpius Malfoy, but not when Neville had asked about Malfoy's son.

His face had gone curiously blank when the Potions teacher had talked about Harry Potter; Neville would have expected some flash of emotion, even if it was only lingering distaste from their schooldays.

And that was just those first few hours last week, right after the pair of them had been called in because of the fight between James Potter and Scorpius Malfoy. In the time since... well, it all piled up, even if it didn't _add_ up. And it made Neville suspicious.

_Perhaps, _he thought, with the sort of inflection that meant there was no 'perhaps' about it, _they don't hate each other after all. _In fact, he suspected that at one point they had even been friends. _Across the battle lines, or afterwards? _There was no way to be certain, at least not unless one of them decided to talk about it — which was unlikely to happen.

Either way, it couldn't hurt to send an owl. Actually, it could: it would be rather like poking a Venomous Tentacula with a very short stick. But it would certainly be interesting.

* * *

Mrs. Comfit was not a Healer. She'd been an accomplished mediwitch, in her day, and even spent a few years on the medical team for the Montrose Magpies. All that had been before four children and a chronic case of bunions had stolen her youth and energy, although nothing could dim her warm and cheerful personality. But while Madam Pomfrey had been a Healer in all but name — a necessity, considering the magical maladies that arrived daily at the Infirmary's door — Mrs. Comfit had let her skills slip to the point where she could hardly even be called a mediwitch anymore. It was unfortunate, but there were few Healers, or even talented medics, that were willing to work for the pittance a Hogwarts teacher earned.

"I feel so bad for the dears," the matron told Ginny as she moved slowly about the Infirmary's office, making tea. Ginny had offered to do it, but been refused with a firmness reminiscent of Molly Weasley. "They're too young to have known the War, bless them, but it still terrifies them. We get them in here, sometimes, especially the older ones. It makes it worse, them thinking they should be too old to be scared of old stories, you know."

Ginny hummed in agreement, and accepted the cup that Mrs. Comfit held out to her. There wasn't much she could say in response to the elderly woman's speech; not that any response was expected. But if it went on much longer, Ginny would have rather a lot to say, starting with how Mrs. Comfit had spent the entirety of the War tucked up in a quiet village in Ireland, and most of the children that Mrs. Comfit was talking about hadn't even been born. Ginny, on the other hand, had fought on the front lines — normally against wizards three time her age, and well versed in the Dark Arts — and spent the years since then picking up the pieces of souls that were fractured by the horrors of the War. She had no patience for the nightmares of coddled children.

"Wotcher, Auntie Ginny."

With his ever-changing face, it should have taken her more than a glance to recognize him, but no matter how he altered his appearance she would always know Teddy. Even if he, inexplicably, turned his hair green and gave himself a hooked nose to rival Snape's, and a long white beard that would have put Dumbledore's to shame. _It's not one of his more subtle transformations_, she thought, fighting back a snicker at the image he presented. "Hallo, Teddy."

"Teddy was one of our more frequent visitors, you know," Mrs. Comfit said. _I'm sure he was, _Ginny thought. What he lacked in natural clumsiness he made up for with a flagrant disregard for personal safety. He'd learned that somewhere, most likely from one of the Weasley men, but Ginny tried not to speculate. "Come and have a sit, love. Did you miss us so much, then?"

"I was sort of hoping to talk to Auntie Ginny alone," Teddy told Mrs. Comfit, declining to sit and instead leaning one hip against a low cupboard. "I had some business in Hogsmeade, and so I thought I'd pop by for a chat." He didn't say 'alone,' but his tone clearly suggested it. Most people only saw Remus Lupin's easygoing personality in him, but his personable cheerfulness was almost pure Tonks, as was his stubborn streak. Ginny could sense a confrontation brewing like a slowly gathering cloud, although Mrs. Comfit seemed as yet unaware of it.

"Now Teddy," Mrs. Comfit chastised him, "you know this is a safe and caring environment, and that no one's judging you here. We can all hear what you have to say." Those were pretty phrases, to Ginny's way of thinking, but all they really meant was that Mrs. Comfit was an old busybody.

He gave an irritated sigh, and his beard shrunk to a little black goatee — he had also, Ginny had long ago noticed, inherited his mother's imaginative sense for transformation. "Well, it's like this. I know what you said about safe sex and everything, but I've gone and knocked Victoire up good n' proper." Mrs. Comfit had gone very pale, but Teddy wasn't finished yet. "Anyway, we were sort of hoping Auntie Ginny could teach us a Satanic blood rite, so's we could avoid all that hassle with abortion or teenage parenthood, and maybe get filthy rich at the same time." The old matron looked quite faint now, and Teddy had a hard smile, that spoke of mischief and something else, on his face. Where he had inherited that sadistic streak from, Ginny had no idea. Perhaps he was Sirius's spiritual descendant, if such a thing were possible.

"Oh my, Teddy, dear, you can't..."

"Now could you please leave us alone, so I can talk to Auntie Ginny about the _actual _reason I'm here?" Even as he said it, he was guiding her to the office door. He at least had the good manners to help her into the armchair she kept in the Infirmary: Ginny was pleased he remembered the manners his grandmother had instilled in him enough for that much, at least. "Right," he said without preamble, once he'd returned and closed the door, "you have some explaining to do."

_Shite and double shite, _Ginny thought. She didn't know what he had questions about yet, but she was willing to bet it wasn't something she wanted to talk about. Suddenly there were an awful lot of things that fell in that category. "Is this really the time for it?" she asked, knowing the attempt to dodge was futile.

"I'm taking that internship in America after New Years, and this seemed like the last — the _only _— chance I'm likely to get. I've waited long enough to ask, in any case." He switched tracks abruptly. "Please understand, Auntie Ginny, that I love my family." He stumbled a little over the word 'love', but he was a nineteen year old boy, so that was understandable. "And I know family is about far more than just blood. But I need to know who my family is, so's I can make my peace with it. I don't want to be going halfway 'round the world with all this unresolved, especially now that... everything." He waved a hand vaguely, as though unsure how to properly summarize all the troubles that beset their family.

Ginny felt an awful wrenching in her stomach. She'd known she couldn't hide it forever, but still she'd clung to the hope that the day when she had to tell them would never come. For a moment, she nearly gave into the temptation to tell him it was nothing, or that it didn't involve him. But in the instant that her eyes closed to blink, there flashed across her vision the image of him as he had been, all those years ago. There was Teddy, bright eyed and eager as he rushed from his grandmother's side into Ginny's waiting arms. There he was, showing off his flying skills to a wide-eyed Jimmy. And there, his face as Bill had led him from the room, after Cho Chang had arrived bearing Albus in her arms. There again, later, his troubled eyes as he promised to accept Albus as part of his family, just as he did James, and never question or speak of how he had arrived with them. He wasn't her son, but he was her family all the same, and so with a sick feeling in her heart and stomach, Ginny prepared to tell him. "If I answer any of your questions, I don't want you telling any of the others."

"Don't they deserve to know?" he asked, with that twist of his brow that was unique to teenagers who had been deceived, and thought they were the only ones anyone bothered lying to. It was endearing, in a way: such expressions had been rare among the teenagers of Ginny's generation, many of whom had had their youth stolen prematurely.

"In their own time. I'll have your promise, Teddy," she added. Her voice had taken on a curiously flat quality, one that did not add 'or else' because it allowed no room for any other course of action. "And I'll have it in blood."

He kept his eyes steady on hers, and held out his right arm. "You have it." Ginny felt a flash of pride to see the man he was becoming, but turned away to stop him from seeing it. Now was not the time for such things.

She took her obsidian knife from her Healer's Bag, and for a moment she could only stare at it. It had been a gift, many years ago, and a few years later she had put it away and promised herself she would never use it again, but she had never taken it out of her bag, either. _One old crime draws forth another, until they all come rushing out_, she thought, then grimaced at the poetic nature of it. As an afterthought, she grabbed a roll of bandages for afterwards.

"I thought it was supposed to be silver," Teddy said when she returned to him, the weak attempt at humour betraying his nervousness — everyone knew silver made Teddy sneeze horribly.

"The magic's in the blood, not the knife," Ginny said, and caught herself just in time. That was the beginning of a speech she had given at least a dozen times in response to similar questions, back when she teaching Healers like Jake Kontapopolous. It just went to show, she thought wryly, that you could never really let go of power: your hands remembered the knife and the ancient magic that was at once alien and familiar, and would turn to them like a plant to the sun. "Obsidian's just the sharpest, so it heals quickest," she finished, somewhat gruffly. "But you'll still have some pretty scars to show the girls." There was no avoiding that — this sort of magic always left its marks, both on the skin and somewhere deeper.

The pattern she cut into his forearm was complicated and precise, but with the once-familiar thrum of the magic in her hands again, the knife moved swiftly and unerringly. When it was done, she clasped forearms with him. "Your promise," she prompted.

"I'll keep it secret," he said simply. His eyes never wavered, although Ginny could see fear deep within them. _But no uncertainty,_ she observed. She kept them hidden as much as possible, but he'd seen glimpses of her own scars over the years — he knew she had done this before. Besides, she was his godmother, and she knew he trusted her implicitly, despite how little she deserved that trust. "Now, Auntie Ginny: What's wrong with Uncle Harry, actually? Who are Albus, and Freddie? And what the hell is James?"

* * *

The scroll in his hand had been an unexpected delivery, and its contents even more of a surprise. Draco was used to receiving regular, chatty letters from Daphne, as well as the occasional missive from Pansy or Blaise, dispassionately cataloguing their recent activities. He would never have imagined he might receive a similar letter from Neville Longbottom.

Strictly speaking, the scroll in his hand wasn't about Neville: it was about Hogwarts, and was addressed to 'Governor Malfoy' rather than 'my old school chum, Drakers' as he had, for one spine-chilling moment, feared it might be, considering how things had progressed with the man thus far. The contents, for the most part, were innocuous and cheerful, but that only increased the similarity, in Draco's mind, between this letter and the ones he received from Daphne. Longbottom, he was certain, was up to something, but he was damned if he could figure out what.

Pomona, according to Longbottom, was in excellent health — as she had been only a few days ago, as far as Draco knew, so he didn't know why Longbottom had bothered saying as much. The stress of finding money in the budget to pay the newly-hired Healer Weasley seemed to be offset by her pleasure in having Ginny around. _Since when have the school's finances been so tight? _Draco wondered. He never bothered reading the financial summaries too closely, having long been of the opinion that if anyone knew where spending was needed to maintain the quality of education, it would be the Headmistress and the teachers — the Board existed only to ensure that that quality remained as top priority (a matter that had never been entirely clear, with Dumbledore, who had always seemed to let Harry Potter and Voldemort take priority over other matters). So he'd never looked too closely at the numbers, but he remembered that those he _had _glanced at had suggested the school was in no way lacking in funds. It was all a bit odd, actually.

Ginny herself, the letter continued, was settling in nicely, and was already well-liked by many of the students. Most of the Weasley brood seemed elated that she was there (and Draco could easily guess which one seemed less than pleased). James Potter, Longbottom said, was so happy that he was even paying attention in class, an event that was wholly without precedent. Also, Ginny was getting along "smashingly" with the matron, Mrs. Comfit.'Smashingly' was not a word that Draco expected Longbottom to use, and he wondered if the man had chosen it deliberately — and if so, why. Hopefully it hadn't involved the destruction of anything irreplaceable, or he'd have to hear about it at the next Board meeting — and if that happened, he didn't think he'd be able to keep a straight face.

As for James Potter, Longbottom wrote, the boy seemed to have developed something of a fan club since the Quidditch match. It was impossible to know how many members it contained, however, because there seemed to be strong — and sometimes violent — opposition to its existence from certain quarters, including James himself. A boy called Caradoc Burke — not a name he knew, but a fourth year Hufflepuff, according to Longbottom — was currently serving detention for roughing up a third year whose idolization of James had become "Creevey-esque". _Really? _Draco thought in wonderment. _A Hufflepuff did that? _Obviously, the Hufflepuffs of today were a very different lot than those Draco had known. He wondered if that was Longbottom's influence at work, or Jimmy's.

Longbottom himself was had just acquired an unexpected project, he continued in the letter. Ginny had appeared in the greenhouses shortly before lunch to request (somewhat forcefully, it was implied) his assistance in restocking the Infirmary's supply of healing potions and unguents. _Never fear that I'm brewing them, _Longbottom assured him. _I'm only the errand boy, sent to fetch the cuttings she needs and raid Bletchley's storeroom._ _I suspect she has a number of the prefects running about on similar errands._ In a way, Draco wasn't terribly surprised: she'd always had a rather strong personality, which she'd claimed to have inherited from her mother. What must it have been like, subduing it all those years to act as a meek housemother and caregiver? But what really caught Draco's attention was that the Infirmary was out of potions, and that the Potions teacher seemed to be making no effort to remedy the situation. _Dear_ _Circe, is the man really that incompetent? _Draco wondered.

In all, Draco concluded, it was a highly suspicious letter. Longbottom obviously had a hidden agenda, but whether it was fishing for information on his relationship with Ginny, or hinting at the unsatisfactory state of the school, Draco wasn't sure. Longbottom's letter might resemble one of Daphne's, but the man was no Slytherin: he couldn't possibly be driving towards both those ends. He folded it and dropped it in one of his desk drawers, then tapped the small mirror that sat on his desk.

The image of his head secretary appeared instantly. "Sir?" the man inquired, politely.

"I want all the administrative records for Hogwarts up here within the hour. Get them for... how long has Pomona been Headmistress?"

"I couldn't say, sir."

"Make it since five years before that, anyway," Draco said. He really _had _been neglecting Hogwarts business, he mused, not to know a thing like that. For the life of him, he couldn't have said who the previous Head had been, either, although he knew McGonagall had stepped down shortly after his own belated graduation.

"_All _the records, sir?" 'Flabbergasted', Draco decided, was a good word for how his head secretary sounded. But really, there couldn't be _that _many records, could there?

"Not the admissions records, obviously. Or the student ones. Just finances and staffing records for now, I think. The next Hogwarts Board meeting is, what, Thursday?" He didn't wait for the man's confirmation. "Not likely time for more, then, not with this Turkish thing about to go off like a Dung Bomb right over our heads. See to it, would you?"

"Yes sir."

"And get someone from Quality Quidditch Supplies up here. They've been wanting to talk about the new line, and I have Christmas presents to order."

"Yes sir." The image disappeared, and Draco knew that the man was embarking on his assigned tasks with a renewed conviction that his boss was a workaholic. And maybe he was, but staying busy at least kept the past at bay.

* * *

Sitting on her stool in the infirmary, going through the students' medical forms, Ginny felt like a failure. Some part of her had always felt that way, but she'd been too wrapped up in Harry and his needs that she hadn't realized it. Her preoccupation with Harry was what made her such a failure: she had neglected her children in favour of her husband. What made it worse was that, while both had needed her, she could have made a difference in her children's lives, while nothing she did could have changed what happened to Harry.

She'd spent time with Jimmy, yes, but nowhere near what she should have; she'd spent even less with Albus and Lily. It shouldn't have come as any surprise — didn't, in fact — that Albus resented her, and Lily preferred to spend time with Hugo and his family. At least Ron had found time for Lily, and Harry for Albus. But that her children had not grown up completely neglected was no comfort to Ginny: she did not have to be the only one in their lives, but she ought have been at least one of the people. But she'd been distracted, trying to make their broken family run smoothly, and in the end she had only managed to break it more.

If only… but there were so many 'if only's, and none of them had come to pass. She could accept most of them, since she had knowingly closed those doors with her choices. Neglecting her children, though, had never been a choice — it had never occurred to her until now, when the guilt was beginning to eat a hole inside her.

She ought to be happy that Lily was content to stay with Hermione and Ron while she ran and hid at Hogwarts like a coward. But did she really know Lily well enough to say that was the case? She spent time with her daughter every day, but Harry had always been lurking in the back of her mind, and she had never been able to pay full attention to any of the children. And even if Lily _was _perfectly happy with things as they were, and even if she _was _extremely mad at Ginny (as she seemed to be) Ginny was still her mother, and mothers shouldn't abandoned their children just because the family goes through some rough times. Even when Percy had walked away from their home and never looked back, Molly had never abandoned him: Ginny ought to have been as strong for the sake of her children.

But she hadn't. She'd run away, worried only about herself, and Jimmy, and Harry… always Harry. She ought to write to Lily… no, she ought to go visit her, even if she just slammed the door in Ginny's face. But even as she resolved to do so, there was a knock at the door, and the limp body of a student was carried in. And again, as so many times before, Ginny didn't have time for her daughter. She wanted to cry, but couldn't.

* * *

The photograph had made a round of the office, stopping at various desks so that another note could be scribbled on the piece of parchment it was paper-clipped to, until at last it had reached the desk of the Managing Editor. Dennis Creevey frowned at the picture for a few minutes, then glanced at the notes below it.

_Conspiracy against Harry Potter — Draco Malfoy entraps Potter Jr. with the Dark Arts_, read one. The next suggested, _The false James Potter — Polyjuice substitution of son drives Potter mad. _And so it went, down the list, each suggestion more ludicrous than the last but all, potentially, supported by the damning photograph of a man and a boy, trudging through the slush of Diagon Alley on a Saturday afternoon — the same Saturday it had been discovered that Harry Potter was in Saint Mungo's. Their identities were unmistakable to anyone who worked in the media, and likely much of the rest of the wizarding world.

On top of that was the story that one of his junior investigators had picked up, that Draco Malfoy had bought a new wand for James Potter after his old one was broken in a fight. What it all added up to, Dennis thought, was a conspiracy against Harry Potter, at least so long as one was willing to discard the notion that there could be a perfectly mundane explanation — and _The National Inquisition _was always ready to discard that pesky notion.

Deep within his heart, Dennis knew himself to be a failure. He'd gone into journalism to carry on the spirit of his older brother. But while he had twice the enthusiasm Colin had had, even he knew he had only a quarter of the talent. By now, Colin would have been running the Prophet, rather than some third-rate tabloid like the Inquisition. But he had faith that his break would come, even if it took him longer than it would have taken Colin. And this, he thought, might be it.

With shaking hands, Dennis opened his desk to pull out an old photo album, to look for a photo he had taken in his fifth year.

* * *

Scorpius as not having a good day. It had started off well enough, aside from the continual annoyance of Albus: ever since Healer Weasley had arrived yesterday, the other boy had been strung out and tense, and the unhappy atmosphere this created was beginning to grate on Scorpius's nerves.

Then he'd passed that bastard James Potter on the way to Charms, and they had traded the usual insults. There had been nothing unusual in _that_, but around the next corner some stupid bastard had jumped him. Scorpius had never even seen it coming: he'd been lifted into the air and had his head cracked against a wall before he even realized there was someone there. Dizzy and confused, he'd started to panic when the hand that was fisted in his collar began to cut off his air.

"Don't you dare go near James again, you swotty little bastard," an angry voice had growled. "A dog like you isn't fit to lick his shoes."

"Yaxley." A new voice rang out, clear and commanding. There was something familiar about the voice, but in this situation Scorpius hadn't a hope in hell of placing it. "Put him down."

"What's it to you, berk?" growled the angry voice, tightening its hold and cutting off the last trickle of air that had been making it into Scorpius's lungs. He couldn't see straight, and little specks of light were flickering in his vision.

"You've been warned about interfering with Jimmy's business before."

Suddenly the pressure was gone, and Scorpius collapsed into a heap at the base of the wall, gasping for breath. There was a crash somewhere to his left, as though someone had been thrown bodily into one of the suits of armour. Preoccupied with the ringing in his ears and the torturous feel of air making its way through his abused windpipe, Scorpius tuned it out.

Eventually, he became aware of a voice speaking softly to him. "...Malfoy?" it was saying. "Are you alright, Mr. Malfoy?" He managed to wheeze something out, although even he didn't know whether it was an affirmation. "Come along, child, we'll get you to the hospital wing." The voice murmured something, then helped him up and lay him down on a soft bed. Scorpius could feel himself floating, and after a moment realized that he was on a stretcher, being escorted to the Infirmary by Professor Catchlove.

That had been a few hours ago. When they'd arrived, Albus's mother, with her fierce eyes and gentle hands, had checked him over, then given him a potion that had sent him to sleep. Now he was awake again, and wondering what on earth had happened to the school since the arrival of Healer Weasley.

"Feeling better?" The Healer came out of the office, wiping her hands on a towel. She didn't bother waiting for an answer. "You had some nasty bruising on your throat, and a rather impressive concussion, but the potion ought to have taken care of all that. I have to do a final check, but you should be able to go down to supper in a moment."

"You're Albus's mother, aren't you?" he asked as she checked his eyes. It wasn't really a question, but it seemed the easiest way to express what was nagging him.

"Yes. Hold on a moment, I need to check your throat."

He waited patiently while she peered down his throat. When she nodded to show she was done, he said, "You and he don't seem anything alike, you know."

She chuckled a bit at that. "He takes after his father. Who," she added, "is quite a bit different from me."

"Is he really insane?"

"Don't you read the papers?" she asked, rather than giving him a proper answer.

There was something about this woman, Scorpius thought, that reminded him of his father. It was a certain inscrutability, as though they were both well-used to hiding their thoughts from the world. "Mrs. Potter — Healer Weasley," he amended at her sharp glance, "when I was growing up, no one talked about Harry Potter in our house. Mama doesn't like talk of the War." There was a flicker in her eye, as though she suspected that there was another reason no one talked about the War: that his father refused to hear it spoken of. Although how she could know _that _was beyond him. "What I know about him comes from the Prophet and what Albus has said. Albus," he added, "doesn't think there's anything wrong with his father."

He wasn't quite sure why he was asking her this. It wasn't any of his business, really. But he didn't like feeling ignorant, and it seemed that these days everyone had an opinion about Harry Potter and his alleged condition, and Scorpius was feeling extremely ignorant, and a bit left out.

For a time, he didn't think she was going to answer him. At last she said, "Harry went through a lot during the War. More than most of us could ever imagine. He's not insane — not the way the Prophet says, anyway — but he's not... normal, either." She perched on the edge of his hospital bed with a small sigh. "Albus's letters talk about you quite a bit, Mr. Malfoy. He says you're very close with your mother." Not sure what she was driving at, Scorpius nodded. "Albus and his father were very much like that. _Are _very much like that," she corrected herself, although Scorpius didn't see the need for the distinction. "Harry tries his best to hide it, and Albus likes to pretend he doesn't notice." She was watching him closely, her eyes bright gold and unreadable. "I'd like to ask you not to talk about it with him, too much. What he needs right now is a friend, not more scrutiny."

Feeling somehow special, as though she was asking an important favour of him — and perhaps she was — Scorpius nodded. "He's coming to stay with us for Christmas." For some reason, he couldn't remember his friend ever saying that he had asked his parents.

Apparently he hadn't, because Healer Weasley's eyebrows rose. "Is he? Well, I'm glad. It will take him away from this, and I'm sure he'll love your mother's Christmas ball."

"You know about Mama's ball?" Everyone who was anyone knew about Mama's ball, of course, but the Potters had never been invited: Mama said their fame was too tied up in the War, and in any case, they seemed to prefer avoiding Society.

"Gabrielle likes to tell stories about it. She's says it's quite the event." Healer Weasley's eyes shone with some private amusement that Scorpius didn't entirely trust, but he let it pass for now.

"You know Gabrielle Delacour?" he asked instead. Mama liked to tell stories about Gabrielle Delacour, too, although they weren't always that complimentary. He wondered if the reverse was true, as well.

Healer Weasley made a surprised sound. "You're friends with Gabby, aren't you? Gabrielle is her aunt."

"But Gabrielle Delacour only has one sister..." Scorpius's eyes went wide, as he remembered his mother's stories and realized the implication. "Gabby's mother is Fleur Delacour?"

The Healer actually laughed at that — a bright, sparkling laugh of genuine amusement. Scorpius found himself thinking that his initial impression of her had been correct: she really was quite pretty, underneath both the humble domesticity and the fierceness that hid below it. She was a very strange woman, was Healer Weasley. "I'm surprised you didn't know," she said, with a smile. "Victoire resembles her the most, but all three of them take after their mother more than they do Bill."

"Mama said Fleur Delacour married some provincial and disappeared from Society." Even as he said it, Scorpius realized he'd made a grave social error: he had just insulted Healer Weasley's brother.

But she was still smiling. "Yes, I suppose she did," she agreed. "But I think she's very happy. There's more to life than Society, Mr. Malfoy." She rose, and patted his head. "You're fine, so you can run along to supper. And Mr. Malfoy?" He paused, halfway out of the hospital bed. "It's probably best not to tell your father about this incident. He was quite proud of your fight with Jimmy — best not to ruin that."

Wondering how in blazes she knew _that_, Scorpius headed down for supper. He had some questions for Gabby and Albus first; figuring out Healer Weasley would have to wait until later.

References:

* Fabian's bacon: Vimes's bacon, particularly as discussed in 'Night Watch' (Terry Pratchett)

* Food groups: Canada Food Guide, because they use such a pretty rainbow to explain everything. I assume Britain's equivalent of the Ministry of Health espouses similar nutritional ideals

* Hen's teeth: Patricia C. Wrede's 'Dealing with Dragons'


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**  
_In which there is dubious logic_  
Wednesday, December 23, 1998

"It's following me again."

With a frown, Ginny marked her place in her book and looked up at him. "You're paranoid," she told him, just as she had every time before - and he brought it up every few hours. At first, she hadn't actually believed it, but there had been a few times now when Kreacher really had seemed to be following him around, lurking in a way that was quite disturbing. "So I get the joy of your company again, do I?" The elf made no secret of disliking her and her red hair, and made a great show of avoiding her. Which was just fine with Ginny, except that she seemed to have become Malfoy's favourite hiding spot as a result.

"Shut up and suffer," he told her tartly, throwing himself into a chair. He was restless, and understandably so: at Hogwarts he at least had the castle to roam, even if he couldn't go outside without supervision. Honestly, it was a miracle they'd managed to get away without the teachers noticing - and she wondered, not for the first time, if McGonagall hadn't deliberately let them get away. It was really the only explanation for how an Invisibility Cloak, even if it was Harry's Cloak, had been enough to sneak him out of the castle. _Why_ McGonagall had let them go, Ginny didn't know, and couldn't begin to guess.

"Why don't you try reading something?" she suggested, waving her hand at the collection of books that lined the walls. This was why she was here, after all: the Black collection, which contained volumes that were in the Restricted Section - or not available at all - at Hogwarts.

He shrugged easily. "Can't be bothered." Then he shoved himself out of the chair and came to lean over her. "What are you reading, anyway?" He flipped the book closed without waiting for an answer. Then his hand went very still. "Farw Chrau? Fuck!" He recoiled as though the aged leather had burned him. "Do you know what that is?" he hissed.

"I'm the one reading it," Ginny pointed out reasonably. "But how do you know about it?"

He waved one hand, impatiently. "That's not important. I thought you came here to study Healing."

"That's what I'm doing."

He seemed to have recovered from his shock, and was edging back towards her, although he kept a wary eye on the book, as though it were the Monster Book of Monsters, and about to attack him at any moment. "That's the Dark Arts. They aren't really the same thing, you know."

"Do you know how many books there are on curing Dark diseases of the blood?" Ginny asked him. "Or if the blood is cursed by the Dark Arts... do you know how many books have been written on how to help those people?" She met his gaze. "Eight. In the entire history of wizard-kind, only eight flaming books have been written on curing maladies of the blood. Five of those," she added dryly, "were written more than a thousand years ago."

"So you're studying the Dark Arts?" He settled himself in the chair next to her, and looked at her with utter seriousness. He's never this serious, she thought, and she felt something akin to a sliver of fear. There was always a small part of him that was sneering at something, or making a joke out of things, as though he was constantly running from reality - but also as though reality wasn't so terrible that it had to be faced head-on.

Unable to meet his eyes anymore, she looked down at the small book. "It's the same for souls, you know. The only people who know anything about them are the ones who are trying to destroy them. But..." She faltered. It had made so much sense, lying in the dark all those nights, thinking about Harry and George. And Tom... Tom had never been far from her thoughts, not with Voldemort out there somewhere, and not in the days since. "I thought, Deadly Nightshade... it's a poison, but it's used in antidotes as well. And I thought, maybe, there'd be something to that. Something that could be turned to light." She risked a glance at him. His gaze rested, unwavering, on where her hands covered the book, and his expression was curiously empty.

"Evil contains the seeds of its own downfall," he murmured. "It's possible." With a soft touch, he turned her face towards his, holding her there so their gazes locked. "Or as another man once put it, there is no good and evil: only power, and those too weak to seek it." He released his light hold, but she found herself unable to look away, and more shaken than she had been in a long time. "Yes, I thought you might recognize that one. It was one of his favourites." He turned away, and Ginny saw that he was pale, and his breathing was as uneven as her own.

After a long moment, she said quietly, "You think I'm wrong, then."

There was another silence, that went on until she thought he wasn't going to answer. "No," he said at last. "I don't. That's the problem." His smile was self-deprecating when he glanced at her through his veil of hair. "We all know I'm not exactly one to talk about morality."

"Maybe," Ginny said slowly. "But what Dumbledore did... a lot of that wasn't very moral, either. But maybe it was still right."

"Maybe." Then he sighed and shook his head slightly, and when he looked back at her again, his familiar smirk was firmly back in place. "You are right about one thing. There's an awful lot of Dark Arts books about blood and souls. Sangremancy and almancy, if you want the proper names." And wasn't he always just such an awful prick about it when he knew something she didn't, she thought, sticking her tongue out at him. "Hey, none of that now."

Reaching behind her, she selected a book at random from the shelf and threw it at him. "Go play with the house elf," she told him.

He caught the book easily. "Anecdotes of the Great Accountants, Volume 3? I think I'll hide from the creature a little longer - it looks like I'm in for a fascinating read."

* * *

"It's quiet, without Ginny here," Ron said as he dropped down on the couch next to Hermione. She just looked at him. "Well, alright, maybe it helps that there's no one else here, either."

He really was dense sometimes, she thought resignedly. Having no one else around, and no classes, should have meant they had more time to spend with each other. She wasn't even asking for romantic evenings or grand gestures - only the occasional quiet chat by the fire, just the two of them, or maybe a game of chess. Just time with her boyfriend, without having to worry about Harry, or Ginny, or anyone else at all.

She didn't say any of that, though. Instead she said, "I got an owl from Neville, yesterday."

"What's he think he's doing, writing to you?" Ron asked suspiciously. If nothing else, Hermione thought dryly, she'd always have Ron's jealousy to let her know he cared.

"He didn't think either of you two lunkheads would reply," she told him tartly. "He wanted to know how we were getting on with school, and said he might drop by some time to say hello."

"Oh," Ron said, mollified. "I suppose that's alright, then. Doing well, is he?" Now that there was no suspicion that Neville was trying to poach his girlfriend - and where did he get the idea that was even possible, anyway? - Ron responded to the news with amiable indifference. It was just so typical of him, although at some point she'd probably stop finding it endearing.

"He says his gran let him build a greenhouse, and he just loves it."

"That's nice," Ron mumbled sleepily, lying down on the couch and putting his head in her lap - without asking, but it was nice that he was so comfortable with her now, despite the initial awkwardness of their relationship. "Wake me for dinner, right?"

"Of course," she murmured, smoothing his hair back. Sometimes he reminded her of Crookshanks: a pat on the head and regular meals was all it took to keep him happy. Of course, there were some things he was much better suited for than Crookshanks was. The thought made her blush.

Watching his peaceful face as he dozed, Hermione regretted lying to him once again, even if it had only been a lie of omission. Neville's wasn't the only owl she had received: there had also been one from Seamus. He'd written to say that he'd run into Ginny in Diagon Alley, and that she'd said it was alright if he wanted to pop by for a visit some time. He was back in Ireland right now, the letter had continued, but he'd be around just before New Years - did she think that might be an alright time for him to stop by the Burrow? Implicit in the message had been the sentiment 'you're a girl... help me out, would you?'

Seamus's interest in Ginny was unexpected, but not entirely out of character for him: he'd always had a certain affinity for fire, even if it tended to blow up in his face. Hermione rather thought that description apt for the little firebrand Ginny had become recently. But Seamus and Ginny were friends, so even if things didn't work out for them - and they wouldn't, Hermione was convinced, because Harry and Ginny belonged together - there wasn't any harm in them seeing each other. It might even be good for Ginny.

So she'd written back, and told him that Ginny was spending the holidays studying at Grimmauld Place, and told him how to get there. She'd added that Ginny would probably be lonely, after all that time on her own, just in case he needed that extra push to go visit her.

She'd tell Ron about it soon, too, she decided. That way it wasn't lying - she was just putting off telling him for a little while. Her conscience thus eased, Hermione settled down to enjoying some peaceful time with her boyfriend.

* * *

"Scorpius," she carolled, drawing the name out. With a roll of his eyes, Draco lowered his book and looked up at her. Weasley was grinning at him, mischief glowing around her like a halo.

"I told you not to call me that."

"But it fits so well," she retorted. "Slimy little crawler that you are."

He rolled his eyes again, but didn't reach for his wand. He enjoyed squabbling with her, but wands were really unnecessary when there was no one around that would question their enmity if blood wasn't drawn. All he had to do was be an arse, and his part in the hostilities was taken care of, so the holidays could progress in a peaceful and cordially hate-filled fashion. "What do you want, Weasley?"

"I was going to make supper. Did you want some, or is your worshipper going to cook for you again?" Little weasel that she was, she knew that creepy house elf bothered him, and took every opportunity to rub his face in it.

"You know I don't trust anything that thing cooks."

She dropped onto the couch next to him. "Something happen?" she asked, curious. "You're not your usual, arse-hole self."

"I've been enjoying my book," he said, with great dignity. "I'd appreciate it if you'd stop ruining it for me."

She pulled the book up to glance at the cover. "The accountants one? Really?" Draco was a bit gratified to see her look so astonished.

"I won't bother trying to explain it to you. Obviously, a Weasley wouldn't have enough experience with money to understand the intricacies involved when there are large sums in question."

She glared at him but, as he had earlier, refrained from reaching for her wand. "Bastard. For that, I'll let you eat the house elf's cooking." She turned and sauntered out of the library.

"I've got a really good comeback coming, just you wait," he called after her. _That should make her laugh enough to forgive me_, he thought. He'd never say he was sorry, but beyond that he'd do his best to stay in her good graces, at least for so long as the choice was between her cooking and the creature's mystery concoctions.

* * *

Ginny enjoyed cooking. There was a subtle art to it, one she had been trained in from a very young age. _You can't cook when you're angry_, her mother had always said, _it'll make the food taste bad_. That was true, but it went beyond that: when she cooked, Ginny entered a state that was almost meditative. Part of her was there, enjoying the tranquility of the kitchen, even when her hands were a blur of motion as she sliced vegetables. Another part of her was somewhere else, floating, and completely detached. She could consider things, which might otherwise upset her, in a rationale way.

Take, for instance, the last few days. Almost a week, really - it was their fifth day at Grimmauld Place. And in that time, she had not drawn her wand on him once. She hadn't even been tempted to. Oh, he had frustrated her no end, but it had always ended with one of them walking away with a sigh or a roll of their eyes. No nasty transfigurations or charms, no potions slipped into food. The holidays had been peaceful.

Too peaceful, really. Five days of living with her enemy, and not a drop of blood drawn. It was... _not how things should be_, she thought. That was the rationale part of her. The irrational part, the one that worked on feeling and senses and straight-up guess work, felt that this was how things should be. She was - and it surprised her to realize it - content to be here.

Some foolish girls, at this point, would have decided that maybe they had been mistaken in their enmity. They might start to delude themselves, thinking that they had never really hated him at all, or even that they had loved him, deep down, all these years. But that was patent foolishness. Ginny was well aware that she hated him, and that he was her enemy, and that things stood between them much as they always had, and ever would. The difference, though, was that, unlike those foolish girls, her hatred was not a petty anger born of frustration at his arrogance, or jealousy of his talents, or misguided sexual frustration. No, this hatred, the hatred that Ginny shared with Malfoy, was pure and absolute.

Anyone who understands true love - that is to say, those few fictional characters who experience it and then live happily ever after - will tell you that it is all you need. There need be no declarations of undying devotion (although those are nice), or romantic kisses (which might be even nicer), or perfect, passionate sex (which is actually somewhat taboo for True Love in this incarnation, although some circles would disagree). Thus was True Hate, Ginny reasoned. It was a perfect, crystal-clear understanding of each other and their mutual hatred, and all else was frippery. She did not need to hex him (fun though it was), and he did not need to insult her (despite his undeniable talent for being imaginative about it). They certainly didn't need to destroy half a corridor with Blasting Curses. All those things were optional: what was true, and immutable, was the hatred that needed no expression.

They could even, Ginny further reasoned, be perfectly civil to each other without abandoning hostilities. In fact, she'd heard it said that if you loved someone, you were bound to fight with them - therefore, if you hated someone, you must be bound to get along with them occasionally. As long as they knew that they truly hated each other, everything would be alright.

In the peaceful, detached place that Ginny inhabited as the onions browned in the skillet, all this made perfect sense. The nagging doubts that had been assailing her over the past few days - that this was _Malfoy _she was spending her holiday with, and in a perfectly pleasant fashion - were eased by this calm rationalization which assured her that the world had not, in fact, flipped upside-down on its axis. Really, it all made perfect sense.

* * *

"Christmas knickers."

It was one of those moments that always made Hermione wish she had a camera: Ron's pumpkin juice sprayed across the table, splattering the boy who had been foolish enough to broach the subject. Not that Ron objected to festive knickers - just what Harry had mentioned them in relation to.

"You can fuck a frog if you think I'm going to let you talk about my sister like that," he growled, reaching across the table to lift his until-now best friend by the front of his robes.

Harry fixed him with a flat, green-eyed stare. "She's my girlfriend."

"She bloody-well doesn't seem to think so. And if you're spouting shite like that, you worm-eating little gargoyle, no wonder." Ron had a way with words sometimes, Hermione thought. It was a pity he was never poetic when he was talking to her. Not that she wanted to be called a gargoyle, mind, but it would be nice if he could occasionally come up with something more imaginative than 'you're really pretty.'

"Ron. Harry. Enough," she ordered them. They traded a last glare, which seemed to say, 'I'm not a pansy, I'm just choosing to let you live, for now' and then, machismo suitably appeased, sat and looked mutinous. _Really, this is ridiculous._ They had been cooped up in the castle too long, to Hermione's way of thinking. A bit of time outside, something to take their minds off, a rest-cure - if she could be excused the old-lady phrase - was what they needed. It would soothe their tempers and give them something to do besides look for 'that rat Malfoy' who seemed to be missing (but had probably just gone home, anyway).

"I'll acknowledge that Harry has a point," Hermione said, once she was sure they weren't about to jump up and start beating each other out of shear frustrated boredom. She held up a hand to forestall Ron's anger and Harry's self-satisfaction. "But only as far as saying that it's too bad Ginny is spending Christmas alone. I think it would be nice if we all went to visit her tomorrow. I'm sure we could get McGonagall to agree."

"No Christmas knickers," Ron said warningly, by way of agreement.

Hermione sighed. "Even if she was wearing some, Ron - which I doubt, by the way," she added hastily, to calm him, "it would be far too cold at Grimmauld Place for her to even think of showing them to someone. The heat never worked very well, remember?"

* * *

"I packed all those jumpers, and it turns out that I don't need them," Weasley was saying. A part of Draco was glad that she wasn't talking about her research over supper - the Dark Arts weren't exactly an appropriate topic for supper-table conversation - but really, did she have to talk about those hideous things, which made her looks like a dyed sheep, instead? It was nearly as nauseating as blood bonding (not that Draco was squeamish, he just didn't like hearing about it). "What on earth did you say to Kreacher to get him to fix it?"

"Something along the lines of 'it's bloody cold in here,'" Draco said, with a superior smirk that was just the littlest bit forced. It was painfully obvious that Weasley had grown up poor: she didn't understand house elves at all. For his part, Draco wished that the dratted thing would leave him alone, so he wouldn't even have to talk about it. It was creepy.

"Well, it's much better now." She'd never say 'thank you', not that Draco was expecting her to. Hearing those words from her would be as much a shock as if the Dark Lord had one day burst into song. It simply wasn't going to happen.

"I'm glad you're happy," Draco grumbled. "It's getting worse."

She frowned at him. "You're not still on about that, are you?"

"It was going through my things today." It had been, too: sniffing around and muttering to itself with a look that was disturbingly close to ecstasy painted on its grotesque mug. Just because Weasley didn't understand the severity of the situation was no reason for her to poke fun at it.

"Well, order it to stop," she said with a roll of her eyes, like this was an obvious solution, so would he stop bothering her about it, already?

Draco scowled slightly, then a bit further when he realized his glares had no effect on her anymore. "It doesn't work like that. I'm not its master, so it's only obeying my orders because it wants to. If I give it an order like that, it'll probably make a fuss and actually steal something."

"Worried it might want your pants, Malfoy?" She really was evil, Draco thought, even as he blanched at what she suggested. Aside from the fact that no sane house elf (not that this one really qualified) would want clothes, that was just disturbing.

"Right, give me back my wand. I'm hexing the little wanker into a pile of vomit."

"Not happening, Malfoy," Weasley retorted, holding up her own wand in a way that clearly said 'just try and take it.' "You gave it to me precisely so you wouldn't do something like that. Be a bit of a downer if they traced you here and carted you off to Azkaban."

_Of course. _That bloody spell they'd put on his wand as part of his probation, which they could use to track him down if they thought he'd broken his parole. Giving her his wand so he wouldn't use it unthinkingly had seemed like a good plan at the time, and it was true he hadn't had need of it over the past few days, but now the situation was different. "Maybe I don't care," he snapped, making a half-hearted lunge for the wand, and falling predictably short when she snatched it away.

"You'd go to Azkaban over a house elf? Why, Malfoy, you're slipping - it's almost as if you think they're worth as much as a human."

Draco dropped back into the chair next to her with a sigh. "One of these days, Weasley, I'm going to wring your bloody neck while you sleep," he said tiredly, covering his face with his hands. Between his fingers, he could see her looking down at her own hands with a strange expression, as though remembering a time when she had attempted to do what he described. _Oh right - the roosters_. He remembered hearing about those - she'd absolutely decimated the school's chicken flock, and that giant oaf Hagrid had been devastated.

This happened, now and again: he would say something, unthinkingly, and she would get an odd look on her face, as though remembering something. Sometimes, he could puzzle out what it was she was remembering - the Battle of Hogwarts, perhaps, or Umbridge's reign of terror - but only when it was something he himself had been involved in. In many things, she remained a closed book. _Not that it matters, anyway_, he told himself firmly.

"Who would defend you from Kreacher then?" she asked teasingly, her relaxed composure returning as quickly and suddenly as it had disappeared.

He shrugged. "I'd be going to Azkaban, anyway. I'd get rid of it too."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell when you're joking," she said with a half laugh that implied she was pretty sure he was this time, but was a bit worried he might not be.

"Malfoys never joke," he told her, peering down his nose at her with all the haughty disdain at his disposal.

She had the gall to snicker. "Pull that wand out of your arse, Malfoy. No one takes you seriously." That was uncalled for, that was, and he told her as much while he upended the salad bowl over her head.

* * *

The man looked up from his book. "Caractacus. Of all the people I didn't expect to come wandering into my study. You were acquitted, then."

Caractacus's smile was slightly bitter. "They said I was mad."

Xenophilius's eyebrows lifted. "Indeed? Does that have anything to do with why you're here to see me?" he guessed shrewdly.

"I've finished it."

This announcement didn't engender the reaction Caractacus had been hoping for. "Have you? As I recall, you once thought you'd solved the Mascian Field, before it turned out that what you thought was a node was actually tomato sauce."

"I've triple-checked all the figures," Caractacus said in annoyance. "The Red will rise. We may even live to see it."

"I don't see what you're so excited about. I had quite enough trouble with the last Dark Lord," Xenophilius said, testily. _Well, fair enough._ The Death Eaters had used his daughter as a hostage, after all.

"If you think that's all there is to it, you've never listened to a word I've said. The Rising of the Red will be _glorious_."

* * *

Ginny awoke suddenly, snatching her wand up from the bedside table with the desperate reflexes of someone who has lived in fear for too long. Half out of bed, with her wand gripped firmly, she froze and listened for what had awoken her. It seemed for a moment that she had imagined it, or that her hearing was not as good when she was consciously trying to listen, but then it came again - the soft tread of a foot as someone picked their way across the creaky floor, trying not to make a sound. Ginny aimed her wand at the door.

Then there was a creak, and then footsteps were pounding across the floorboards. Closer they came, closer, then her door was thrown open with a bang. A jinx flew from Ginny's wand, missing the target and instead ripping a chunk of moulding from the ceiling - Ginny would later realize it had been a disarming spell, fired instinctively before she could properly register what was happening. The intruder slammed the door behind themselves, and said, between gasping breaths, "Fucking Merlin in a fairy ring, Weasley, what was that for?"

"Hecate's back hole, Malfoy, what the hell did you think you were doing, sneaking around like that?" Ginny snapped. "I thought you were..." She snapped her mouth shut. She had been about to say 'a Death Eater', except of course he _was_.

He didn't answer for a moment, and she was about to blast him one on principle, before she realized he was snickering quietly. "Sweet Circe, Weasley, but you've got a dirty mouth on you."

"Fat lot of help you are," Ginny retorted. "It's all your bad influence, anyway."

She heard him sigh melodramatically, and his shadowy form made its way towards her. "Don't blame your bad habits on me, Weasley. They're all your own. Can you get some light, anyway?" he added waspishly.

"_Lumos_," Ginny murmured. The soft light that came from her wand cast shadows across his face, so that he seemed to be a painting, done in stark blacks and whites. He was shirtless and barefoot, and his fine hair stuck up this way and that, so that he resembled a dandelion. His arms were in shadow, but the Mark was a darker smear on his forearm. She'd seen him in many different situations over the past few months - when he was drunk and injured, laughing and haunted - but this was the first time he had looked so startlingly, fragilely human. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked quietly. She didn't want to see this side of him - it inexplicably terrified her - but she couldn't look away.

He sat on the edge of the bed next to her, and Ginny could at last look away. She stared determinedly into the shadowy corner of the room, refusing to look at the man who was her enemy for fear that she would be forced to see him as he was under all that arrogance and posturing. "It snuck into my room. I got up to use the loo, and when I came back..." He shifted slightly, and she could feel barely-suppressed embarrassment rolling off him like a wave.

"So you're hiding behind me again, are you? Coward." She didn't need to look to see his flinch. That word had always been like a slap in the face to him - worse, in fact, because it stripped away his facade in ways a blow never could. If she hadn't been so tired and cross, she would never have used it.

"I see," he said quietly, and stood. _Oh, shite,_ Ginny thought.

"Draco." Even without looking, she knew he paused. _And wouldn't I, if he used my name?_

"Yes?" His voice was flat and empty, and she was sure that if she'd looked, his face would have been equally devoid of emotion. Perhaps she was misjudging, but that emptiness spoke to Ginny of caution: he was waiting to see what she would say. Worse, he was being serious, and for the second time that day. Combined with that human face he had shown her just a minute ago, it was extremely unsettling.

What had she wanted to say, anyway? She couldn't apologize to him anymore than he could to her. And did it really matter, if he stomped off in a snit? _But it does_. "If you try anything, I'll nail your balls to the Whomping Willow. Stupid bastard," she added.

There was a pause, and then his quiet footfalls made their way back to the bed. He was silent as he slid between the sheets next to her, careful to leave as much space between them as possible. _I need to get my head examined_, Ginny thought in resignation. _I'm not even drunk this time_.

* * *

**Notes and References:  
**

*Evil contains the seeds of its own downfall: 'Good Omens' (Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman), I think. But I might be wrong.

*Farw Chrau: according to the online translator, Welsh for 'Dead Blood'. But, interestingly, it could be translated as any combination of 'dead', 'die', 'death', 'defunct' (etc) and 'hole', 'eye', 'blood' or 'stockade'.

*Almancy and sangremancy: as noted before, I made these up. 'Al' - coming from 'alma' (Spanish, soul) since 'almamancy sounds silly - and 'sangre' (Spanish, blood). I could have use Latin, getting 'animancy' and 'cruormancy' (or 'cruomancy'), I suppose, and been more in keeping with the original flavour of Harry Potter, but I liked the Spanish better.

*Anecdotes of the Great Accountants (Vol. 3): 'Night Watch' by Terry Pratchett.

*'True Love': Disney Princesses and Mary Sues. Enough said.

*Old-lady phrases: Lacy from 'Corner Gas' (can't remember which episode).


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**  
_In which the past rears its head_  
Thursday, December 7, 2017

At 6:58 each morning, a secretary put an early copy of the Prophet and a cup of hot tea at the center of Mr. Malfoy's desk. Any important mail that had arrived overnight was set at one of the corners in a neat stack, to be addressed or not as the president saw fit. By 6:59, both secretaries on duty would be behind their desks, appointment books open before them and burning floo fires at their backs. At 7:00, with the uncanny precision that had led one outspoken muggle-born secretary — who had quit entirely of his own accord to take a position with Greenpeace, and not because he'd pissed off his boss — to accuse him of being a robot, Draco Malfoy would appear in his office, sit down, and read his paper.

It was a quarter to eight, and Mr. Malfoy had yet to appear. The secretaries were getting nervous, and the president's high-strung assistant had already made fire-calls to the head secretary (who was in Belgium overseeing a transaction), Mr. Malfoy's London flat, Saint Mungo's, and the Ministry, desperately looking for her wayward boss, who was nowhere to be found.

Draco knew precisely what was going on because the same thing had happened exactly one week ago, after he'd stayed overnight at Hogwarts. He'd been overtaken with such a feeling of schoolboy mischief, on learning the distress he had caused, that he had resolved to do it more often. It wouldn't do any good to wait about much longer, though, because he suspected that very soon his poor assistant might try to mobilize the army to find him, just so that he could be in time for his nine o'clock meeting.

Chuckling to himself, Draco folded his paper and stood. He nodded to Tom, who had grown too old to work behind the bar but would still likely be in the Leaky Cauldron every day until he died, and grabbed a pinch of floo powder. The flames were burning a merry green, waiting for him to announce his destination and step into them, when he stopped. A ratty pile of newsprint, the cheap paper and ink making the words smudge, had been left on a table.

The fire and work forgotten, Draco turned and picked up the newsprint. It was the Inquisition, a notorious rag that was always trying to pin something or other on him and Malfoy Enterprises, probably as a result of some old grudge held by their Managing Editor, that odious little creeper Creevey.

Malfoy's Secret Son, read the headline. Below was a picture of himself and Jimmy Potter the day they had come to Diagon Alley, trudging side by side through the slush, their faces all but obscured by the angle of the camera. A skim of the date — yesterday's — and the article told him how badly things stood. The Inquisition was a rag, so it would take a bit longer for the rumour to spread than had it been in the Prophet but, on the other hand, it was sold at newsstands all over the country, and there he was, squarely on the front page.

"Self-sodomizing Circe and mother-sucking Maeve," he muttered. He'd left his more colourful profanities behind with his youth, but they returned with extra shades in the face of this. "Creepy can bend over and get fucked up the arse by a re'em if he thinks he'll get away with this one."

The fire had returned to its normal flickering orange and yellow. Snatching up the tabloid, Draco threw in another handful of floo powder and snapped, "The Three Broomsticks," before stepping into the flames. It looked like his assistant would have to panic for a while longer.

Pomona had just tucked into her porridge when the tall figure swept into the Great Hall in a swirl of black robes. For one heart-stopping moment she thought Severus Snape had returned from the dead and just walked in on breakfast. But though the man who strode towards the Head Table bore the same icy expression and angry dignity as Snape at his most royally pissed-off, there the resemblance ended. Draco Malfoy's features had lost their childhood delicacy, but they remained clean and thin, lacking the brooding, sallow strength that had been so prominent on Severus's face. Too, Draco's hair had a sheen that came from it's natural lightness, rather than the greasy complexion that Snape had been afflicted with.

"Perhaps we should let him live here," Neville commented thoughtfully from his place beside her. "He's certainly here often enough."

"And what would you suggest he teach?" Pomona asked. Not that she could imagine Draco Malfoy as a teacher, despite his undoubted proficiency in most subjects. She could still remember how shocked everyone had been when he placed first in all his exams during his final year — Hermione Granger had actually shrieked in shock. He would be a good Defence teacher, especially, although he had an indisputable talent for Potions as well.

"Prancing About Like You Own the Place," Neville said, a bit more loudly than necessary. "Oh, hello Malfoy, I didn't see you there."

"I'm sure you didn't," Draco returned dryly. Neville just smiled, and tucked into his sausages. "Weasley. A word. Now." By the time he was finished rapping out his sharp order, his voice had gone from icy to utterly glacial. Pomona stared at him in shock, and from the corner of her eye she could see Neville doing the same.

Ginevra, for her part, returned his gaze with a look of mild puzzlement. "Alright, Malfoy. Excuse me please, Pomona. Neville, I'll talk to you later about those bulbs." She set her napkin aside and followed him out of the Great Hall without a further word.

"Did you understand that?" Pomona asked Neville quietly. He was an astute boy, she'd found, and she'd come to rely on his insights, especially with troublesome students — not that these two were troublesome, but they were certainly a quandary.

With a slight grimace, Neville shook his head. "Not a bit of it. But since it's those two..." he sighed. "It's probably best if the rest of us just take cover and wait out the storm." Thinking of the chunks of masonry on the sixth floor that, after almost twenty years, still hadn't been replaced since those two had wrecked havoc there, Pomona was afraid he was all too right.

"Wards?" Ginny asked, surprised. She'd brought him back to her room — it was closer than the Infirmary, and they had less chance of being overheard than anywhere else she could think of. She'd known, when he'd arrived with that look on his face, that something urgent and very nearly catastrophic was happening, but that he would put up wards against listening spells as well... it didn't bode well.

He pulled a grungy piece of newsprint from his cloak pocket. "This."

She took it and glanced at the headline. As soon as she saw it, and the photo below, she felt her knees growing weak, and sank, boneless, into the armchair. No, she thought. Not now. Not this, of all things.

For a piece in the Inquisition, it was startlingly factual. The author — Dennis Creevey, that little kneazle-fucking bastard — kept speculation to the minimum, sticking almost entirely to easily verifiable facts. On the day after Harry Potter's arrival at Saint Mungo's, his eldest son had been taken to buy a wand by Draco Malfoy, with whom the boy had no known connection. "Despite many available relatives, including war heroes Ronald and Hermione Weasley (neé Granger)…" the article continued. The reader's attention was very politely drawn to the photograph, and the striking resemblance between its two subjects. It was all the more damning because it lacked the Inquisition's usual ranting conspiracy theories.

"Snake-raped Delphi," she breathed, offering the page back to him. He waved it away. "When did it come out?"

"Yesterday."

"I will murder that little..."

"Ginny." She looked up at him. "Later. Right now, we — I — need to deal with this. And I need to know, Gin — is it true?"

"It's all bullshit, anyway."

Fabian resisted the urge to groan and drop his head onto his book. They have their own bloody Common Room. Can't I have some peace to study in mine? But no, it would seem not: Gabby had invited Rosie over, and James was, inexplicably, present as well. Ensconced as he was in the tall armchair next to the fire, his head bent regally as he talked quietly with Griflet about something — something completely mad, probably, Fabian thought — he would have looked positively royal if only his legs didn't dangle so far above the floor.

"Give it a rest, Rosie," Fabian told his cousin. It wasn't like anyone cared, anyway, and she was only here to rant because everyone in Gryffindor was sick of listening to it. "It's not like it matters."

"That's exactly my point," Rosie said, choosing to take his words as support. "Purebloods aren't any better than the rest of us. We're all just wizards and witches." She glared pointedly at Gabby. "So I don't see why you make such a fuss about tracing the family tree."

"Because it does too matter, and anyway, it's interesting," Gabby said petulantly. She wasn't arguing very hard, though, because it was Rosie (who never listened to the other side, anyway) and these days it was hard to argue for blood purity without sounding like a neo-Death Eater.

Over by the fire, Griflet was talking rapidly, punctuating his words with emphatic hand gestures. James, looking thoughtful and severe, was nodding. As Rosie opened her mouth, no doubt to tell her cousin exactly what she thought, James held up a hand to forestall Griflet. "Enough, Rosie. Gabby is correct in this."

"Fat lot you know," Rosie said, her attempt at a sneer wavering under the force of James's flat stare. "You're just as much a half-blood as I am."

I wonder, Fabian thought. James's grandmother had been a muggle-born, it was true, which excluded him from Pureblood status by many systems of reckoning. But there were times, looking at James, when it didn't seem to matter: sometimes the boy exuded an aura of power and magic so tangible it burned away any connection with the mundane. Rosie, like so many of their generation, had embraced muggle culture and technology as much as was possible within Hogwarts. In contrast, if you'd dropped James into the middle of Britain as it had been five hundred years before, he would have blended right in amongst the wizarding aristocracy. Perhaps being a Pureblood is a state of mind, rather than something genetic, Fabian mused. He'd never given much thought to it before: everyone in his family had magic, and that was just the way things were.

James was smirking down at Rosie, as though he knew something she didn't. "Have you ever thought about where our magic comes from, Rosie?"

"Then how do you explain muggle-borns?" she snapped in return.

"That would be a 'no,' then." He sighed, as though he would dearly love to hex her for being unbearably stupid but was holding himself back through sheer dint of will. "There are a number of theories. One is that magic is genetic, like blue eyes. We all share a common ancestor or, more likely, a group of common ancestors. Some muggles are carriers for the gene, but don't express it themselves — depending on whom they marry, their children might, however."

"That doesn't explain Squibs," Rosie interjected.

James shrugged carelessly. "Mutations, perhaps. Interference from other genes. Flaws in the embryonic development. It doesn't really matter, does it?" He raised one thin eyebrow. "It's still blood. The other theory, of course," he continued, before Rosie could speak, "is that all humans have the potential for magic. It's like another sense, if you will. Children from magical families are exposed to it from birth, and so are more aware of it. Some never get a handle on it — those would be the Squibs."

"And muggle-borns find it for themselves," Gabby cut in, excited.

"But then blood doesn't matter," Rosie said, as though this proved her point.

James looked smug, but didn't answer. "Non, Rosie, but it does," Gabby told her. "Being raised in a magical environment will give you a stronger sense of magic. Most Pureblood families have ancestral homes. Some, they have nearly as much magic as Hogwarts."

"It's not blood," Rosie retorted, petulant.

Gabby waived her away. "Where did you learn this, James?"

"From Mum. She has a book by a witch who went to Cambridge to study genetics after Hogwarts."

Gabby's eyes went very wide. "Do you think she would lend me this book? Oh, I must see it!" Where on earth did she get these bookish tendencies? Fabian wondered. Curiosity was natural in their family, but both of their parents seemed to prefer working on instinct and experience rather than booklore, much as Fabian himself did.

"I'll get it for you later," James promised. He wasn't quite smiling, but Fabian thought the younger boy might be happy to see Gabby so excited. It was hard to tell sometimes, though.

"Jimmy," Griflet murmured, "about the Mascian Field..." His mouth closed abruptly as he realized that he had spoken loudly enough to be overheard.

That caught Fabian's interest. "I've heard of that. Dad used to say it was a myth." The Mascian Field was an old puzzle, his dad had said. The idea was that if you correctly connected a series of dots, which represented significant sites in Britain, the intersection of all the lines would lead you to the Holy Grail. "There was some muggle that proved you can't get all the lines to intersect."

"That's a muggle," Griflet said, in a tone of voice that, with anyone else, would have been accompanied by a roll of the eyes. "The puzzle is magical, and needs to be solved that way." Oh, right, he's a Pureblood too. Fabian never paid much attention to blood status, so the old prejudices tended pass by him unnoticed. It was only times like this that reminded him they even existed anymore.

"Grif," James said quietly. "It doesn't matter. Even if it were true — which I doubt — what would the point be?"

"But Jimmy, it's the Grail," Griflet said, as though the point should be self-evident. In this case, Fabian agreed with him. "And why wouldn't it be true?"

"It's too simple," James said, with an irritated shake of his head. "'X marks the spot?' Who would be stupid enough to hide something like that, even if the Field couldn't be solved?"

"But you could solve it, Jimmy." The firm, steady conviction in Griflet's voice, without a trace of flattery or humour, troubled Fabian.

Jimmy smiled slightly, and patted Griflet on the head in a kind, slightly condescending way. "Perhaps. But if I did find the Grail, what then? What use would it be to me?" His smile grew, wider and a bit softer. "Come on, it's about time for lunch, don't you think? You missed breakfast again."

Fabian watched his cousin lead the other boy out of the Common Room. 'What use would it be to me?' Jimmy's words echoed in his head. Who looks down on something like that?

Most people, Draco thought, would not open with, "Sir, the representatives from Nimbus are in Conference Room Three," when the boss they had been desperately searching for, for nearly five hours, turned up looking shell-shocked. His assistant, however, never led with questions like 'Are you alright?' As far as she was concerned, he was here, which meant he was fit to work.

"In a minute," Draco said, studying himself in the small mirror that was normally used for intra-office communications. As he watched, his face relaxed, taking on the calm, icy inscrutability he was so known for.  
"They've waited an hour, they can wait a bit longer."

"But sir..."

He shot her a stern look. "In a minute, I said. There's more urgent business. Go grab a copy of the Inquisition, familiarize yourself with their story. Ours is the usual: decline to comment, very sorry to hear that Creevey has his head up his arse again, busy with our normal operations."

She studied him for a long moment. "You're slipping a bit, sir. Take a few deep breaths before you meet with the people from Nimbus."

"Right, right." He sighed and waved her on, confident that the matter was now in capable hands. That woman could handle anything — it was part of the reason her salary was higher than the GDP of some small nations.

Whatever you do, don't give them blood, Ginny had said. They'll want to do a paternity test. I'll take care of that — we'll use Harry — but don't let them near you. The standard paternity test only looks for a blood match: even I'd get a positive result as your child. And wouldn't that raise a few eyebrows. Her laugh had sounded forced.

Even now? he'd asked. That was... he'd stopped, not wanting to relive the memory he'd been avoiding since she'd reappeared in his life last week. It had been years ago, practically in another life, and it had marked the end of that life.

Blood never fades, she told him. Even if every cell of the foreign blood is removed, there's a... a signature.

You've told me this before, haven't you? he'd said weakly, unable to think of anything else to say.

You never did listen, she'd countered. He hadn't questioned her further. But no matter how much he trusted her, he couldn't help but feel uneasy. Creevey had stepped over a line this time: before, he'd restricted himself to attacking Malfoy Enterprises and Draco himself. But this time, he'd hurt Ginny too, and Jimmy. This time, Creevey had gone too far, and he was going to find out what came of seriously pissing off a Malfoy.

For the fourth time that hour, Dennis Creevey was tempted to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming. Finally, finally, it looked like he'd made his big break. He'd been getting owls and fire-calls all morning about the Malfoy article. It looked like he'd ripped the cover off the biggest secret since the War. That arrogant bastard Malfoy, who until now had remained completely untouchable by the media, was sequestered in his office, and refused to comment on the situation. He'd tried to contact Ginny to apologize — he was just doing his job, and he was sorry if it hurt her — but the fire-call had been answered by Neville Longbottom, who'd tried to send a hex through floo when he saw who was calling.

But all that was alright, because Dennis had done it: he'd made his mark, and now even the Prophet was calling him to follow up on his article. Things really were too perfect. He pinched himself: it hurt like hell, but things were still perfect.

There was no answer when he knocked at the section of wall that marked the entrance to his mother's rooms so, after a couple of quick checks to make sure no one was around — and it took several, at Hogwarts, what with the portraits and the suits of armour and all — James murmured the password and slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. There wasn't anything wrong with letting himself into his Mum's room, as far as he was concerned. But now Ginny was a staff member as well as his mother, and entering a teacher's rooms without permission was guaranteed to lose House points at the very least. Being mindful of this, Ginny hadn't even given him the password — but, as Caradoc was wont to point out, when Jimmy wanted to know something, he had ways of finding out.

Even with winter present in full force outside, there was a feeling of late spring in the room. The floorboards had been warmed by the light through the window, and tiny motes of dust sparkled in the beam of sunlight. Probably magically enhanced, Jimmy thought absently, gazing at it. Giving himself a mental shake — it wouldn't do to stand around captivated by sunbeams — he turned his attention to the two boxes of books his mother had brought with her, but hadn't yet unpacked.

I wish I could be sure I had more time, he thought as he knelt before the first one, reverently lifting the lid. He'd long known that his mother's collection, though small, contained rare — and perhaps forbidden — texts on healing and the Dark Arts, but aside from one or two of the more innocent volumes, he'd never even seen the titles. Despite his best efforts — which had included everything from wishing very, very hard to a crowbar borrowed from his grandfather's shed — the magical cabinet at the Burrow where she'd stored them until now had always stayed stubbornly locked.

With shaking fingers, Jimmy stroked the spines that were revealed. Verdammte Seelen. Kokend bloed. Yn bucheddu asbri. Haunting foreign names, stamped on age-darkened leather bindings. Knowing that his mother could return at any time — and she would not be pleased to see him going through her books — but unable to stop himself, Jimmy picked up Kokend bloed. He opened the cover slowly, afraid that it might begin to scream the way the books in the Restricted Section did when someone tried to read them without permission.

The book stayed patiently silent, its front cover flopping a bit despondently on its loose binding as though to say, 'get on with it, then.' He would have, too, if not for the ornate book plate stamped to the inside of the cover. Ex libris Malfoy. James felt his eyes go very wide. What was his mother doing with a book from the Malfoy library which, like all the collections once owned by Death Eaters, had been long-since confiscated by the Ministry? He snatched up the other two books, not even pausing to wonder if they, too, lacked defensive spells. Yn bucheddu asbri had the same stamp, although Verdammte Seelen had a slightly less ornate plate, with the words Ex libris Black.

He'd never considered what had happened to the Black collection — which should, by rights, now belong to his father — but a book stolen from the Malfoy collection was certain to be illegal. And here his mother had at least two, and very likely more. Although he didn't understand the titles, there was something about them that sounded dark, even evil. "What is this, Mum?" he murmured, unable to stop the words from slipping out.

"My books," came the answer, dryly.

James dropped the books and spun to face his mother. "I..." He hadn't even heard her come in. Oh, bat-buggering Mopsus, he thought. I'm dead.

"Which I'm quite sure I told you to stay out of," she added, raising one eyebrow in a way that quite clearly said, 'you have nowhere to run or hide, and I want to watch you squirm before I put you out of your misery.'

"I told Gabby about that book on wizarding genetics, and said I'd ask if I could borrow it..."

"But since I wasn't here, you decided to skip the 'asking' part. I see."

He looked down, ashamed. He'd promised himself he'd behave himself and make her proud, and already he'd broken that promise completely. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. He hated to apologize to anyone, but right now he truly felt regretful, and hoped she'd forgive him.

His mother sighed. "Alright. I think you understand now why I don't want you looking at my books, right?"

"Yes Mum. And I won't say anything, Mum, I promise." Banned books — and from the Malfoy library, at that. How did she get them - and for Circe's sake, why? he wondered.

"I wanted to talk to you, actually. No doubt you'll hear about it soon enough, if you haven't already." She offered him a piece of newsprint, and busied herself packing the books back in the box while he read it.

When he was finished he looked up at her, to find her watching him expectantly. "It's all bollocks, though," he said. "Why do they do things like this, anyway?"

With a troubled sigh, his mother shook her head. "I don't know, darling."

"It's not fair," he said, quietly. "After everything you've been through, they accuse you of this, too. They shouldn't be allowed to do things like this — it's not fair." He looked up at her, desperately. Why was everyone so set on hurting his mother? She was a wonderful woman, and had never done anything that warranted the injustices that were so heaped upon her.

"I was more worried about you," she told him. "I..."

He shook his head firmly. "Thank you for telling me before anyone else did. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"That's my Jimmy," she said gently, touching his hair lightly. "Such a strong boy." She gazed at him for a moment, with such a jumble of emotions in her eyes that James couldn't begin to understand them. "Nothing for now. I spoke to Draco this morning — he intends to ignore all this. But if things get bad, you may have to give some blood for a paternity test." He noticed that she used the man's first name, but didn't comment: he'd figure out what it meant later.

"Of course," he agreed, instead. "Never mind waiting for things to get bad — can we do it today?"

She hesitated for what seemed, to James, to be a second too long. "I have to talk to the other teachers. I don't want you missing classes. But I think we can get down to Saint Mungo's to do the test tomorrow evening."

"Saint Mungo's? Oh. Dad." Of course Saint Mungo's, he thought, surprised that he had even questioned it. There's no sense in bothering Mr. Malfoy over something like this. "With the reporters there, of course."

She smiled weakly. "Of course. But you have class now," she added, regaining some of her normal, unflappable composure. "Here's the book for Gabby — now off you go."

James took a last look at the tabloid's by-line — Dennis Creevey, that ashwinding cock-sucker — before handing the page back and accepting the book. He gave his mother an impulsive kiss on the cheek and trotted out of the room. You'll get yours, Creevey. Just wait, he thought.

For longer than anyone could remember, the discrete door that opened onto one of Diagon Alley's side-ways had been the entrance to Bargles. Established back at the height of Imperial power, when the Hanovers ruled Britain and the Commonwealth, the club had since survived wars, the loss of Empire and entitlement, and Women's Lib. The last of the old-school gentlemen's clubs (at least according to its members), it was a quiet refuge for men of wealth and breeding, where they could retire for a glass of port, a cigar, and frank discussion about how the country had gone to pot.

As such, it was the meeting venue of choice for many old, well-respected groups, foremost among them the Hogwarts Board of Governors. At regular periods throughout the year, the Board would lay claim to one of the club's elegant dining rooms and, over an elaborate late-luncheon, discuss the school's business. Since the Board was comprised almost entirely of noted men from well-established families — many of whom had been at Hogwarts together — agreements were generally reached with a minimum of fuss, and most of the meetings were taken up with reminiscing of the Good Old Days.

Lucius Malfoy had been inordinately fond of the club, as had many of his associates, and spent much of his free time there. Such was the reputation of the club that, despite the high probability that Death Eater meetings had taken place there on a regular basis, it remained a stony, aloof pillar of the community, and completely beyond reproach.

Draco hated it. He found the lavishly decorated rooms and corridors, done in red, gold and mahogany, to be oppressive and stuffy, not least because of the prevalence of Gryffindor's colours. Most of the members, with their bored elegance and talk of the Good Old Days, grated on his nerves. He knew he was looked down on there, too, although more for his personal involvement in something so crass as commerce than for his shady past.

He tossed his cloak to one of the attendants as he strode through the club's door. "Thank you, Sam," he said absently, more from habit than anything else — he hadn't even looked to see if the man had caught it.

"They're in the third dining room, Mr. Malfoy," another attendant said. He nodded, and continued his quick passage through the club's silent corridors. There were some members, undoubtedly, who would think his haste unseemly — Pansy's grandfather, who all but lived here, had once petitioned for Draco's membership to be revoked because "the boy makes too much noise, always rushing about."

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said coolly when he made his entrance.

"And lady," a thin, querulous voice added. It wasn't a voice Draco had expected to hear.

He paused, and regarded the elegant woman levelly. "Drusilla Crabbe. To what do we owe the pleasure?" It was surprisingly difficult to keep his tone polite. But then, the woman was an utter menace.

"My father-in-law is indisposed. I am here as his representative."

Frankly, Draco was surprised that she'd been allowed through the front door. Women were allowed in Bargles, but only if they were properly escorted, and had respectability, a certain age, and skirts that covered them from chin to wrists and ankles — and even then, only in special circumstances. She had, at least, followed the dress-code, although he had no doubt that she was morally opposed to the old-fashioned nature of the requirement. Very likely, Draco thought, the desire to attend the meeting outweighed her feminist outrage.

Settling himself in his chair, Draco said, in a tone much milder than he would have thought himself capable, "I see. You won't mind me asking to see the paperwork, of course. Purely as a formality, you understand."

"Come now, Malfoy, it's just a formality," Bones said. "No need to trouble ourselves with such things. She's just here as Emmett's representative, and..."

"It would be just a formality," Draco interrupted the man firmly, "if I thought she had the papers. Clearly, she doesn't." He looked directly at Drusilla Crabbe as he said this, aware of how much it would offend her that they were speaking as though she was not present.

"No one's much concerned with the old rules," Bones said, his normally genial countenance darkening at the prospect of disagreement in what should have been a pleasant and uncontroversial meeting.

Draco returned the man's frown. "So it would seem. Actually, I wished to discuss something related to that today. Madame Crabbe, since you are here already, I suppose we shall allow you to stay as an observer. Emmett Crabbe will be considered to have abstained in any matter decided today. Then, to business."

"Hold a titch there, Malfoy," Rutherford spoke up, suddenly. "You can't just decide these things..."

Draco raised one eyebrow sardonically. "And here I thought I was being generous. It would be within my rights as a member of the Board to insist that she leave the room, and as a member of Bargles to have her thrown out of the club. And if you say one word, Madame Crabbe," he added, seeing her mouth open, doubtless with some hot retort, "I shall do just that."

"I suppose you're right," Rutherford conceded, peevishly. Draco was sure that that man was internally cursing the name of Malfoy. As though that's a change, he thought, although he kept any indication of his thoughts from his face.

"Now, gentlemen, to the matter I mentioned. You will see before you a summary of certain statistics concerning the school's administration." As he spoke, Draco waved his wand, and copies of the scroll he held appeared in front of each of the other governors. "I'll not list the details, but I'm sure you will notice some interesting trends." 'Interesting'was not the word he would have liked to have used. 'Damn suspicious' hit closer to the mark, but outright accusations would serve no purpose yet.

"What are we looking for, Malfoy?" Bones asked. "Nothing seems amiss to me."

Draco hummed noncommittally, and waited. "Increased operating expenditures — that's to be expected with inflation," Prewitt said thoughtfully. "Decreased performance on OWL examinations, but that could be a reflection of a change in the Ministry's testing procedures. There's been a decrease in hiring, as well, but these things go in cycles. It's interesting, Malfoy, but I'm afraid I don't see the point."

"A list of the teachers' credentials, Malfoy?" Rutherford said dryly. "I'm afraid you've quite lost me."

Draco leaned back in his chair, a slight smirk on his face. "As you are no doubt aware, I have had the occasion to visit Hogwarts a couple of times recently. I confess, I was quite surprised by what I found. A man who scored an A on his Potions NEWT, and received no further training, is now the Potions teacher — even for the advanced levels. Another man, with scarcely the constitution to face down an angry flobberworm, teaches Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"I suppose you'd prefer it if we hired a former Death Eater," said someone dryly. Draco didn't bother looking up — the man wouldn't have said it if he weren't sure of maintaining his anonymity, and there was no sense in making it look like the comment had struck a nerve.

"It's only hearsay," Draco went on, ignoring the interruption, "but there's also a rumour that one of the staff members is terrified of being alone with anyone with red hair, and therefore can't properly discipline the students of his House. And, most interestingly," he paused, and met the gazes of each Board member in turn — pointedly ignoring Drusilla Crabbe — "the appointments for Head of House were decided by the Board, rather than the Sorting Hat."

"I see," Prewitt said slowly. "But if there were a problem, surely the Headmistress would have done something."

"Oddly enough, she can't," Draco said. "Following some of Dumbledore's more questionable appointments, and at the prompting of the Ministry, the Board passed a resolution that stripped the Head of School of that power and others."

Prewitt frowned. "That was during the War. None of that holds."

"It was never rescinded."

"Then why haven't we heard any complaints?" Rutherford demanded, sounding just the littlest bit defensive.

Draco gave the man a shark-like grin. "An interesting question, Rutherford. Perhaps she was concerned about the consequences of telling you that your nephew was not qualified to teach Transfiguration. Or that the cousin of Governor Bones's wife couldn't brew a potion if his life depended on it. Frankly, gentlemen, I'm disappointed. All of you talk about a brighter future for Hogwarts, but you won't let go of the foibles of the old administration."

"You're a fine one to talk about that, Malfoy," someone said — likely the same man who'd made the comment about Death Eaters. Stupid, petty son of a whoring banshee, Draco thought.

"I am, in fact. The Malfoy's may not have invented nepotism and cronyism, but we've been the leading experts in it for the last century." He fixed Rutherford with a firm look. "And you, if you'll forgive my crudeness, have done a piss-poor job of it."

"He was the most qualified applicant," Rutherford snapped.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Really? Well, perhaps. But isn't it interesting, that the two — the only two — teachers that Headmistress Sprout has hired are vastly more qualified than any of the others? Mr. Longbottom, you'll recall, has an Order of Merlin, and is recognized as one of the world's foremost breeders of venomous plants. Apparently a school in Brazil offered him twice what we're paying him but he has, fortunately for us, turned them down for now."

"For some reason I thought you hated Longbottom," Prewitt said idly.

"I do. That's why I'm describing his accomplishments in the worst light I can." Well, it's only sort of a lie, Draco thought. Certainly it was a vast understatement of Longbottom's aptitude for the post.

Prewitt chuckled a bit at that. Good man, Draco thought. Prewitt wasn't a bad sort, but he tended to have a sort of unassuming blind faith in everyone, which was likely why he'd never before questioned the state of Hogwarts. "The other teacher you mentioned — I assume you're referring to Healer Weasley?"

"I am."

"Of course he'd think she was qualified," Rutherford snapped. "He's been having it off with her for years."

Creevey is going to die for this, Draco thought angrily. He was saved from answering, rather unexpectedly, by Drusilla Crabbe.

"Don't you dare say such a thing, Bertram," she said heatedly. She leaned forward and glared at the man — who was old enough to be her father — with an angry flush in her cheeks. "You should be ashamed of believing a rag like the Inquisition, and even more ashamed of your underhanded conduct." Draco decided that perhaps he could forgive her for ignoring his order to be silent. "Healer Weasley is one of the most accomplished Healers in the country, and Hogwarts is blessed in the extreme to have her on its staff."

"Madame Crabbe," Draco said mildly. She looked at him mutinously, looking for a moment much younger than her years. "Thank you for your contribution. Perhaps now we can continue this conversation in a civilized manner."

"Are you going to throw me out?" she asked suspiciously, looking ready to raise a ruckus if he said 'yes'.

He gave her his most winning smile. "Not just yet, I think. But don't think this means I'm recognizing you as Crabbe's representative," he added.

"Incidentally, 'battery' could also refer to a whole bunch of guns," Jimmy said casually. Freddie frowned slightly at his cousin. It wasn't at all like Jimmy to be that flippant — that was more Freddie's own style. But Jimmy had been strange all afternoon, ever since he'd returned from borrowing a book from Ginny.

Whatever it was, Freddie thought with a mental shrug, it was Jimmy's problem. If the other boy needed anything, he'd ask for it. Otherwise, he didn't want help, and there was no sense worrying about him. It was hard not to sometimes, though — Ginny, too, had always been disinclined to ask for help, and that had always made Fred worry about her more.

"Then Gin'll just have to put me back together," Freddie said with a grin. Jimmy rolled his eyes, and settled himself on the end of Freddie's bed, a prudent distance from the rewired CD player.

"Do we need to have another chat about this apparent death wish of yours?" Jimmy asked, sounding a bit more like his usual self.

"After I die. Now, what's appropriate for my funeral march, do you think?" He held up the cases of the CDs Hermione had given him. "Hanson, Ricky Martin, or Backstreet Boys?" He hummed thoughtfully. "If the player doesn't kill me, the music might."

"Not a very dignified death."

Freddie grinned widely at him. "But imagine the obituary! Death by Boy Band, maybe. Here lies Freddie, beloved by all, tragically cut off in the prime of his youth by really cheesy lyrics. The options are endless."

"Just turn the damn thing on and blow yourself up, already," Jimmy retorted.

"Oh ye of little faith," Freddie said, dropping the CD into the compartment and closing the lid. "It'll work. Probably." He pushed the On button, then scooted back a bit — just in case.

There was a whirling sound as the CD started to spin, and a humming rose from the machine. There was a brief musical note as a song started to play, then the box exploded in a flash of blue fire. The CD scythed across the room and imbedded itself in a wall.

Feeling slightly singed, Freddie looked up at his cousin, who was watching impassively. "I guess it didn't think much of Hermione's taste in music, either," he quipped. Jimmy just rolled his eyes.

"Why didn't you have me thrown out?" Draco ignored her. He'd offered to escort her to the club's door, not to listen to her speculation. "It was because I stood up for Healer Weasley, wasn't it?" Drusilla Crabbe persisted, looking up at him in a way that was meant to imply that she had him all figured out.

Annoying woman, Draco thought. "You aren't half so clever as you think, Madame," he said dryly.

"Then why didn't you have me thrown out? Or was that just an empty threat?"

"I very nearly did," he said mildly. "And perhaps I should have done. But what would I have gained? It would make me look like a brute, and likely be counter-productive in the long run."

"And that's the only reason?" She very clearly didn't think it was.

"I've heard a great deal about your daughter from my son," Draco said, changing the subject. "It seems she's very close with Jimmy."

"She admires him a great deal," Drusilla admitted. "And she seems very in awe of Healer Weasley. Which is fine, I think. Healer Weasley will be an excellent role model."

Draco wasn't quite sure what to think of that. "Will she?"

"You think that just because she's a woman..." Drusilla began, hotly.

"Ginny isn't a feminist," Draco interrupted, mildly. "She's not some liberated woman, showing the patriarchy where they can stick it. It's just how she is."

"Yes, I know," Drusilla said, surprising him. "That doesn't mean she's not a good role model. But I'm surprised that you know that about her. You must know her well, then."

Draco hesitated. "A long time ago," he said at last. Then, he added, "You seem quite focussed on her, if you'll forgive my saying so."

"She's the reason I came today," the woman answered, almost too casually. "I received an owl from my daughter today. Her friend, James, was concerned that the Board would not look kindly on his mother because of that article. His prediction of Rutherford's accusation was almost exact." She frowned, slightly, as though troubled by this.

"He chose his champion well," Draco mused. She flushed a little, from pleasure or embarrassment or both. Still, Draco found himself frowning as well. "His influence has a surprisingly long reach, doesn't it?"

"Worryingly so. He's only twelve."

"It may be nothing," Draco said, not really believing it himself. The fight with Scorpius, the Quidditch game, the aggressive Hufflepuff, and now this... Draco didn't know what it all added up to, but he did know that Jimmy bore watching.

"I hope you're right," Drusilla said quietly.


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**  
_In which Ginny finally gets into Draco's pants, and Ron is jealous_  
Thursday, December 24, 1998

It was the tremors that woke him. Even though he'd kept himself carefully on the far side of the bed as he fell asleep, at some point during the night they had both rolled towards the center of the bed, and he woke to find his forehead tucked against her shoulder blade and his arm loosely draped over her waist — a position that seemed to be becoming a favourite of his. Her back was warm against his chest, but shaking as she cried in her sleep.

"Weasley," he murmured. "Weasley." She curled into a tighter ball, but gave no indication of hearing him, nor of waking. "Ginny." She murmured something softly in response to that, so he tried again. "Ginny, wake up."

"'Raco?" she mumbled, sleepily trying to twist to look at him. The morning light that peaked through a crack in the curtains made something on her cheeks glimmer. _Tears, _he realized. His arm tightened around her instinctively, forcing her to stay facing away from him so that he couldn't see those tears.

"You woke me up," he said, then realized it made him sound both petulant and harsh. "Nightmare?" he asked, as gently as he could. He wished, suddenly and fiercely, that he'd been able to sleep in his own bed last night: that way, he wouldn't have woken to these tears he couldn't face.

"S'nothing," she answered, trying to draw away from him.

He held her firmly where she was. "Happens a lot, does it?"

The shake of her head was almost imperceptible. "Just... keep remembering his face when I put the knife on him." He could scarcely hear the words, she whispered it so quietly.

"You're not worried about repercussions, are you? The memory charm..."

"But _I _remember." Her voice was plaintive and weak, not a tone he associated with her. He wondered how many times she'd awoken like this — and how many times she hadn't awoken, but stayed trapped in some nightmare memory. _Not my concern, _he told himself firmly. Weasley was a strong woman — this was only a moment of weakness, one that he ought to forget as soon as he could. Somehow, he didn't think he would be able to.

She tried to roll over again, and this time he let her, biting back his instinctive protest when her arms went around him in a desperate hug. He lay there, silent and resigned, and let her clutch him as she fought for a semblance of her normal composure. When at last he thought she was calm, he said, "You're cutting off my air. I'd like to be able to breathe, if you don't mind."

The glaring eyes she turned towards him were red-rimmed but dry. "Don't be more of an arse than you have to, Malfoy."

From somewhere else in the house, there came the distinctive crack of Apparation. "Ginny?" a voice called. Weasley's eyes went very wide, as did Draco's own.

Half rolling over her, he snatched her wand from the bedside table. "Kreacher, hide my things," he ordered, having no idea whether the elf could hear him. "Hold on," he said quietly to Weasley, who still seemed too shocked to move. Then he Apparated away.

* * *

"That's strange. She doesn't seem to be here," Hermione said, peering around the dimly lit entrance hall.

"She might still be asleep," Ron pointed out. "It's early."

"It's almost ten, Ron," she answered, just the littlest bit impatient. She herself had been up since just after six.

"Ginny's not a morning person." 'And neither am I,' was added implicitly.

"It's the holidays, anyway," Harry said, peeking into the kitchen. "Nothing wrong with sleeping in."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Even if she was sleeping in, she'd be awake now, what with you two rampaging around like a pair of hippopotamuses. She's not here."

"Where is she then?" Ron challenged.

"I don't know. Somewhere else. Diagon Alley, maybe," she added, hoping that would curtail the storm of brotherly worry that was brewing on Ron's face.

"I'd like to go to Diagon Alley," Harry said thoughtfully. "I know we only told McGonagall we were coming here, but... it's not a big deal, right?"

Hermione hesitated. They were all legally of age, now, and it wasn't like Diagon Alley would be dangerous. And after a year on their own, moving all around Britain, the halls of Hogwarts were somewhat stifling. A side trip really couldn't hurt. "Of course," she agreed. "But we're stopping at Flourish and Blott's."

* * *

Once again, Minerva was assailed by doubts. She was, technically, breaking the law by allowing Draco Malfoy his continued freedom. Ginny Weasley was seventeen, and therefore an adult, but that was hardly enough to qualify her as a warden for a convicted Death Eater. It was the sort of flagrant disregard for the law that had been so typical of Albus, bless his soul, and that worried Minerva somewhat. On the other hand, there was little in this world that would convince her that it wasn't right.

She'd been as surprised as anyone when Malfoy had taken the school up on its open offer of an eighth year. Her resolve to keep an eye on him had been prompted more by her worry over his reception — she would _not _tolerate fights in her school — than by the Ministry's request.

He got up to little enough, anyway. His marks were excellent — the best they had ever been, now that he didn't have Quidditch or evil schemes taking him away from his studies. All the teachers reported that he was quieter, more reserved, and that if he spoke in class it was to ask a relevant and insightful question about the course material in a way that bespoke a genuine desire to learn. Flitwick in particular seemed to have taken a shine to the boy over the last few months, and now considered Malfoy a favourite pupil; but then, Flitwick had always had a soft spot for ready intelligence.

Despite his apparent turn-around, Minerva had still been shocked when the boy fell in with Ginny Weasley. According to the Bloody Baron — who knew the most about Malfoy's activities, and told Minerva the least — the two studied together often, and occasionally met on a more social, but strictly platonic, level. There was no romance, no evil plots, just the strangest friendship that Minerva had ever encountered.

Sometimes, Minerva thought she should send the pair of them to visit Poppy so they could have their heads examined. That anyone should apparently take such joy from a series of vicious, and sometimes violent, fracases simply boggled the mind. _Well, Ginny Weasley _is _related to the twins, _Minerva thought, _and perhaps all that Dark Magic scrambled the Malfoy boy's brains._ It wasn't the most reassuring thought, but it might explain why they acted as they did.

However strange their relationship, it was solid, and Minerva had had only a few slight misgivings about letting the pair of them escape to Grimmauld Place. Perhaps she had been right to do so: according to the monitoring charm the Ministry had placed on him, and given her, he hadn't used magic at all this week. _Such restraint, _she thought. For a Pureblood who had grown up positively swimming in magic, not using a wand would be nearly torturous.  
_  
And now I've sent Potter to them. _It would have seemed strange if she had told Potter and his friends that they couldn't go to Grimmauld Place, and likely they would have gone anyway. But she worried about what would happen when those three found Malfoy there. _I hope I did the right thing._

* * *

They landed with a crash on the edge of a bed, and fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs. "Cliodne's cunt, Malfoy, do you even have your license?" Ginny demanded when a bit of air found its way back into her lungs. She'd noticed that her language had become a bit more colourful over the course of her association with him, and at times like this she was glad.

"I do too," he snapped petulantly, disentangling himself and looking around the room. "I was rushed, was all. Oh, I see. Mother rearranged the furniture."

"She... where _are _we?" Ginny demanded, glaring at him as she stood. It felt like her body, especially her knees and elbows, were covered in bruises. It was a miracle he hadn't splinched them both, Apparating like that.

"Malfoy Manor. Wiltshire," he added, somewhat unnecessarily. Seeing her glare intensify, he added, "I panicked, alright?"

Knowing what the admission cost him, and not particularly caring, Ginny said, "So now what?"

"Breakfast?" he suggested, shrugging.

"Not dressed like this," Ginny told him, indicating her dishevelled pyjamas. She was about to elaborate, when she heard footsteps rapidly approaching.

"...Apparated in... unexpected..." she heard.

Malfoy heard it too, and his eyes widened. "Bathroom. Go," he ordered, jerking his chin towards a door. Ginny fairly flew across the room, getting the door closed behind her just as the door to the corridor opened. _How much longer is this going to keep up? _she thought, tired and annoyed. She'd wanted to sleep in but, failing that, she was willing to settle for breakfast — but she didn't look to be getting that any time soon, either.

Willing her breathing to stay quiet, she pressed an ear to the door. "...doing here?" a voice she almost recognized was saying.

"I decided to come home," came the answer in Malfoy's unmistakeable drawl. "I still live here."

"Does Minerva McGonagall know you're here?"

"Yes." Ginny wondered if Malfoy had also come to the conclusion that McGonagall had let them go, or if he was simply telling a barefaced lie.

"We didn't receive any notification that you'd be arriving."

"Maybe I was suddenly overcome with extreme homesickness," Malfoy retorted. _Oh, please don't be an arse,_ Ginny thought at him, willing him to somehow hear her. _For once in your life, pretend you care what someone's saying._

"You're alone?" the man asked suspiciously. If they had detectors for Apparation, no doubt they could identify the number of people, and would know if Malfoy tried to lie.

"No. Ginevra Weasley's with me." He said it calmly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. And to some extent it did feel that way, although it wasn't quite enough to counter the strangeness of suddenly finding herself in Malfoy Manor, of all places.

"Where is she?"

"The loo," Malfoy answered dryly. "Is that all? I was in the middle of changing."

There was silence for a moment, then the man said, "I'm watching you, Malfoy."

"Not while I'm changing, you aren't," Malfoy retorted firmly. There was the scuff of feet, and then the sound of a door closing. "Weasley, you can come out now."

"Who was that?"

"One of the Aurors." Malfoy was rooting through a deep wardrobe, so his voice was slightly muffled. Even so, Ginny knew that his expression would have a wry twist to it when he said, "They keep a constant watch to make sure we behave ourselves."

"Sounds like a boring assignment."

"One nearly got eaten by the topiary last week." His shoulders moved in what might have been a shrug. "Mother warned them, but of course that just made them think she was hiding something out there."

Ginny felt a slight smirk tugging the corner of her mouth. "Perhaps not so boring."

"Perhaps," he agreed, emerging from the wardrobe. "Here. They'll be a bit too big, but they're the closest I have." He handed her a shirt and a pair of worn Quidditch corduroys. "You really ought to learn some tailoring charms."

"What makes you think I don't know any?" Ginny said, a bit defensively. She didn't, but that was entirely besides the point.

He gave her a withering look. "If you did, your clothes might actually fit. The only other explanation is that you have absolutely no taste."

She glared at him, but turned back to the bathroom without comment. Her looks and her family's financial situation were two topics she never wanted to discuss with him, and this conversation threatened to include both.

After she'd washed and dressed, and he'd taken a turn in the bathroom, he led her out of the room. "Mother's probably in the conservatory," he told her. "We can take breakfast there." That brought Ginny's attention rapidly away from the architecture, which she had been studying. The Manor was built elegantly, on a grand scale, but it seemed that that only served to make it feel empty.

"Your mother..." she murmured, suddenly unsure. She knew that Narcissa Malfoy had saved Harry's life during the Battle of Hogwarts — hence the clemency towards the family — but the only time she'd seen the woman up close had been at the Quidditch World Cup. Then, she had seemed imposing, aloof, and hopelessly aristocratic. Malfoy wasn't as bad as he first seemed (although in some ways he was perhaps worse), but that didn't mean the same would be true of his mother. And she dreaded the thought of meeting Lucius Malfoy.

The conservatory, like the rest of the house, was enormous and beautiful. Carefully tended plants lined the room, filling the air with a warm, earthy smell that was cut by the humid freshness of a slender waterfall. The high glass ceiling seemed to amplify the winter sunlight, aiding the illusion that they had been transported somewhere exotic and tropical when they stepped through the doorway. In the center of the room, a grand piano held the place of honour, looking as though it had grown there rather than out of place.

Seated at a delicate table, in a chair that looked as though it had been made of spun glass and spider silk, was a tall, stately woman. She might have been beautiful once, and some would probably still think her so, but to Ginny she looked careworn and tired. She looked up as they approached, and her smile made Ginny think that maybe she was still beautiful after all. "Draco. And Miss Weasley." She stood and kissed Draco lightly on each cheek, then repeated the greeting to Ginny. "I was just about to begin breakfast. Won't you join me?"

"We'd be glad to, Mother," Draco said gently. His firm grip, which suddenly appeared on Ginny's elbow, cut off any protest she might have made. He steered her to a seat at the table, likely looking gentlemanly and considerate, even as he gave her no option but to do as he wanted.

"Ginny." She started at the deep, rich voice, and looked around quickly to locate the speaker. Kingsley Shacklebolt, one-time Auror and now Minister of Magic, was watching her over the top of the Prophet. His strong frame was comfortably ensconced in a deep armchair that looked no less elegant for all its apparent comfort.

"Kingsley," she said, so surprised she nearly missed her chair as she tried to sit, no longer sure her legs would take the weight. "What are you... I mean..." Perhaps Malfoy had noticed him, and that was why he'd been so forceful about making her act as though nothing was wrong — but Ginny hadn't even realized there was anyone else there.

"It's very nice to see you too," he said, a cheerful, amused smile splitting his dark features. Now that he no longer looked so severe, Ginny managed to smile in return. "You look well."

"As do you, Minister," Ginny responded, finally recovering herself. "I hadn't expected to see you here."

"That much," he answered, "is evident. The reverse is true as well." His eyebrows raised slightly. "_I _am here bringing holiday wishes to the Malfoy family."

"Checking up on us, he means," Malfoy grumbled next to her. At least he had the sense to say it quietly.

"Malfoy — that is, Draco — said I might be able to use their library for my NEWTs research," Ginny said. From the corner of her eye, she saw Malfoy go very still when she called him by his first name, but by the time she mentioned the library he was nodding as though this was the reason they had come here all along.

"He didn't mention that the library was forfeit?" Kingsley asked, his voice tinged with something that might have been suspicion. Ginny saw Narcissa Malfoy's expression tighten slightly.

"But it's still here," Malfoy said, his bored arrogance dismissing the Minister of Magic as easily as it did an annoying first year. _That's quite the trick he has,_ Ginny thought to herself. _It'll probably get him killed one day._ "Might as well make use of it before it goes. Oh, Mother — do you know if we have the first two volumes of _Anecdotes of the Great Accountants_?"

"You'll have to ask Anton." Any woman with less poise would have shrugged, Ginny thought, but Narcissa Malfoy's manner implied that such an action was beneath her dignity.

A bearded man that Ginny thought she might have seen before — at the Ministry, maybe, or with the Order — came in then. Kingsley looked up at him. "It's all in order, then?"

The man nodded. "She nearly took my head off when I asked if she was sure."

"Of course she did," Kingsley agreed, rising and folding his paper. "That's what you get for questioning Minerva's competence. She wouldn't let Malfoy escape."

* * *

Despite a brisk wind from the north that promised snow before nightfall, Diagon Alley was packed with last-minute holiday shoppers. The air, which tasted to Ron of pollution and freedom, seemed to fairly hum with tension: both excitement for the coming holiday, and stress from shopping under a tight deadline. After so many long months at Hogwarts, with only classes and Quidditch to distract him from the memories that seeped from the very stones of the building, it was glorious.

Harry seemed to have found new energy, too. He'd cheerfully recalled their adventure in Gringotts, and spoken kindly to everyone who had come up to shake his hand and wish him well. There had been one moment, when Harry had wanted to buy Christmas owl treats for Hedwig, when Ron had worried that things might blow up in their faces, but the treats had been purchased without incident. There would be some difficulty in disposing of them later, but Ron didn't want to think about it.

He hadn't seen Ginny yet, which was another worry. He'd agreed to come as much because Hermione had said his sister would be here, as much as because it was important to Harry. But though he'd looked and looked, craning his neck to see over crowds and straining his eyes to see through shop windows, he'd still found no trace of her.

It worried him, far more than he liked to admit. Too often these days, it seemed that Ginny was leading a life separate from theirs; almost as if she were purposely distancing herself from them. He'd first noticed it years ago, when he was in his fifth year, but he'd put it down to her growing up. After she'd started seeing Harry, things had seemed to go back to normal. But these past months — or perhaps even longer, perhaps since they had first left to find the Horcruxes — the space between them had grown alarmingly. Sometimes he thought he didn't even know her anymore.

But all that was probably just his brotherly worry, as Hermione would say. They'd find Ginny, and he'd realize that his paranoia had made things seem worse than they were, and everything would be fine.

* * *

Anton, Ginny learned shortly after breakfast, was the dour-faced ghost who served as the Malfoy family's librarian. Born in the seventeenth century to the wayward lady of the house and a village lad, he'd soon been shipped off to a monastery, only to be called back some years later to keep the house accounts for the incompetent heir. The ghost had glared in a dull, resigned sort of way as Malfoy related the tale, as though he disliked being reminded of his personal history. Whatever his attitude towards the house and the family, though, he clearly loved the library, and knew the name and origin of every volume it contained.

He was waxing nostalgic about Abraxas Malfoy, whose love of rare books had nearly doubled the size of the collection, when Ginny's eyes became drawn to the portrait that overlooked a small cluster of reading chairs. It was a still portrait, as though painted by a muggle: it must be very old indeed, because Hogwarts contained portraits from as far back as the fifteenth century, all of which moved. There was a curious flatness and lack of proportion to the woman's face as well which, had she paid more attention in History of Magic, Ginny would have recognized as typical of pre-Renaissance works.

With a shock, as though suddenly stung by a skrewt, Ginny recognized the woman. Though the style differed significantly from the portrait at Hogwarts, which had been painted several hundred years after the woman's death, with that dark hair, pale skin, and those sharp, thoughtful eyes, the woman in the portrait was unmistakably Rowena Ravenclaw.

"Malfoy," she said, not noticing the glare Anton sent her as she cut him off, "why is there a portrait of Ravenclaw in your house?" Some small part of her wouldn't have been surprised if it were Slytherin — indeed, she had half expected to see one somewhere in the house, perhaps above an altar.

"We're descended from her," Malfoy answered easily, as though this meant little to him. "At least, that's the story."

She looked at him sharply. With his personality, she would have expected Malfoy to have bragged to everyone who would listen that he was descended from Ravenclaw herself, despite being in Slytherin. "The story?"

"Have a seat," was his answer, coupled with a jerk of his head towards the chairs beneath the portrait. "It's a bit long. We'll call if we need you, Anton," he added, in clear dismissal. The ghost gave him a snooty look — perhaps arrogance really _was _genetic in this family — and drifted away.

"None of this is in the histories because no one can prove it — although enough of my ancestors have tried. It's just a story," Malfoy began. His gaze move from Ginny's face to the portrait of Ravenclaw, and then intensified until it seemed he looked through the canvas to the past. _The Founder's time, _Ginny wondered, _or when he learned the story? _It was an irrelevant thought, but she continued to watch his face as he spoke.

"In 1050, when Hogwarts was founded, Ravenclaw was still a young woman. The youngest of the four, actually: about twenty years old, while Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were in their thirties, and Slytherin was close to sixty. So of course, it's understandable that Slytherin was thought to be the greatest of the four, as well as the most set in his ways." His tone was thoughtful: he wasn't needling her, only mapping out how things appeared to have stood. "Ravenclaw was married, with a young daughter."

"The Grey Lady?" Ginny asked quietly, afraid to interrupt but unable to keep herself from doing so.

Malfoy didn't even glance at her, but continued to speak to the unmoving portrait. "I suppose. Ravenclaw's husband died, at some point. That part's a bit unclear, but it's not really important. Then, after Edward the Confessor died, William of Normandy came to claim the throne of England, and Geoffrey Malfoy came with him. Ravenclaw was at Salisbury when the town fell to them. Geoffrey asked William for land near the plain, and to be allowed to chose a wife from the conquered women, in recognition of his service. Decent of him, perhaps, considering that rape and pillage were more common. It probably seemed like a small reward to William, so he gave it easily.

"What William didn't realize was that Geoffrey was the most powerful wizard of the small handful that had come from Normandy, and it was his goal to be the founder of a line of the greatest wizards in the world." Ginny thought his smile at that was slightly rueful. "A home near a powerful ancient site, and an exceptional witch as a wife: those were what he needed, and by marrying Ravenclaw and building Malfoy Manor, he gained them. Everyone else probably thought he was insane, marrying an old woman like that."

"She wouldn't have been that old," Ginny protested. "Only..."

"Thirty-seven or so," he agreed. "Old, for that time — it was a miracle she survived giving birth to Geoffrey's heir. But she always hated him, and after the son was born, she put a curse on the family. Only one heir would be born to each generation. The family would never grow, as Geoffrey had wished, and it would die entirely if a son died without issue."

"No wonder you're such a brat," Ginny muttered. "Ridiculously coddled because of an old story."

Malfoy ignored her. "She died of a broken heart soon after. Well, that's the story, anyway. It's a thousand years old: it's just as likely she was madly in love with Geoffrey, and was broken hearted when he died. Or that neither of them ever existed. The curse is real, though."

"That's rot," Ginny informed him. "A curse that lasts a thousand years? Especially one that specific... it can't be done."

"There's curses on the pyramids that have been there for several times that," Malfoy pointed out dryly.

Ginny shook her head firmly. "Those are on objects, not bloodlines. Magic sticks better. And anyway, they don't last as well as you think — they start to mutate, or fall apart, which is why there's so many nasty things in there. Bill said the worst thing he ever saw was a spell that was supposed to preserve grain, which went bad. Anyone who went near the tomb would start to rot, only they wouldn't die or fall apart entirely." She waved a dismissive hand. "Anyway, the curse is impossible. It's just that no woman wants to bring any more of you arrogant bastards into the world than she has to."

The look he gave her was so intense, and went on for so long, that for a moment Ginny feared she had actually offended him. But then he smirked, and said, "But we're so handsome. What woman could resist?"

"Albino ferrets aren't nearly as attractive as you seem to think," Ginny countered, feeling inexplicably relieved that he had not been offended by her easy dismissal of something which he genuinely seemed to believe. She could remember his anger before, when she'd suggested that his family was so small because they all turned gay, and he'd first mentioned this ridiculous curse.

But now he actually laughed at her comment. "That's far more recent. My great-grandfather wanted to marry a beautiful woman, so he married a veela."

"Has anyone ever told you that your family is incredibly shallow, Malfoy?" One had married for magical power, one for looks, and though he hadn't mentioned it, there had probably been at least one that had married for money.

"Never to my face," he said with an inexplicable smirk.

"Anyway, I didn't think veelas liked marrying wizards." Fleur's grandmother was a veela, but she'd admitted to Ginny that neither she nor her mother knew who her grandfather had been.

"They don't. She killed him." He shrugged, a slightly wicked smile on his face. "She ate his liver, too."

"You're making that up."

"I'm not. Well, the bit about the liver, yes. They never proved that she tried to eat him, but I'm sure she did."

Ginny shook her head. "Suddenly, so much about you stands explained."

"I'll take that to mean my dashing good looks and stunning intellect," he drawled in return. Ginny rolled her eyes. The stories themselves hadn't been that revealing — interesting, yes, but they were just stories. But his current good cheer, and the thoughtful way in which he had told the stories had fully shown her a side of him that she had previously only seen flashes of. _How uncomfortable he must be at Hogwarts, if this is how he acts at home, _she thought. But she'd never say as much out loud: it would be an unpardonable voicing of his weakness, which he was loathe to show to anyone. Besides, it wasn't as though this was his true face, and his being an arrogant bastard was just a front: that was as much him as this relaxed, thoughtful young man. It was interesting, and somehow pleasant, to see this side of him, but she wasn't so foolish as to believe that he was inadvertently revealing a soft, squishy center that had been hidden under that prickly shell all along. _There's absolutely nothing soft about him._

She suddenly became aware that he was speaking again. "...even listening?" he was saying.

"Yes, yes," she said irritably, waving him off, even though she hadn't heard a word he'd said.

"Liar. You were completely lost to the world. Flitwick could have done a naked Irish jig right in front of you, and you wouldn't have noticed."

Ginny winced. "I could have done without that mental image."

"Pervert," he answered, not sounding the least bit sorry for causing her mental pain. "What I said was, we should find those books for you."

"That was just an excuse for Kingsley," Ginny pointed out.

"I know." He looked up at the high shelves that ringed the room; sadly, Ginny thought. "But the books really _are _forfeit and I just..." He grimaced. "I don't want to lose them all," he admitted, grudgingly. He was probably afraid the sentiment sounded sappy, but Ginny understood.

"I can't take that many."

"Some of the oldest and rarest books in the collection are Dark Magic texts on almancy and sangremancy."

Ginny felt herself pale a little. "Malfoy, I can't... books like that are much too..." _Precious _was the word she wanted to use, but in her flustered state she had very nearly said 'expensive', which would have given him entirely the wrong idea about her objection.

"Come here," he ordered and, hesitantly, she obeyed, moving to stand in front of her chair. He reached up and gripped her hand, as though to shake it. "I, Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy family, its titles, manor, fortune, and all its possessions, do grant permission to you, Ginevra Weasley, to borrow, indefinitely, any items or parts of the Malfoy library collection, and to have unrestricted access to them, as I would have." He released her hand, but his eyes remained steady on hers.

Ginny took a shaky breath, worried by the strange stirring she had felt when he'd held her hand, as though the very air around them was charged. "That sounded unbelievably pompous, you know."

"I can't help it," he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I didn't write it. But it's the only way for you to get through the protections on the books. Ah, Anton," he added, as the ghost approached in a way that as much resembled a purposeful stride as was possible for someone who floated. "I didn't call for you."

"You released the wards on the collection," the ghost said angrily, no longer even slightly deferential. _So that's what that feeling was, _Ginny thought, inexplicably relieved to learn that it had only been magic. _Just the wards. _"Just what do you think you're doing?"

"What I can," Malfoy snapped. "We'll be wanting the books on almancy and sangremancy, Anton — the best volumes, please, and any that you cannot bear to have confiscated by the Ministry."

Ginny saw the ghost's transparent eyes widen. "You are protecting the library?"

"The best and most important, Anton. We cannot take many."

"Yes sir."

"And see what we have on accountancy and business. I'd like to sneak a couple of those, if I can." Anton was rapidly floating away, apparently elated by the imminent salvation of his precious library. "He's such a twat," Malfoy muttered, once the ghost was out of earshot. Ginny snickered.

* * *

"What do you mean, I can't fly?" Draco demanded. The bearded Auror just shrugged, as though he didn't care that he was denying Draco the thing he had most looked forward to ever since he realized all the opportunities that being home afforded him.

"Can't supervise you properly if you're on a broom," the man said. "It's Christmas — not enough manpower."

It was surprisingly difficult to resist the urge to reach over and throttle the man. Beside him, he felt Weasley twitch, and suddenly realized that they'd been standing with their shoulders touching. _Sweet Circe, that's bad, _he thought. At some point he'd become comfortable enough around her that he didn't even notice the contact. It was worrying: not only did it mark a dramatic change from his old self, but it was dangerous for him to be so unguarded, even if it was only Weasley.

"And why should he have to be supervised?" Weasley demanded, before Draco could stop her from interfering. "He's not a baby." The Auror muttered something about escapes, and Weasley growled in frustration.

"It's alright," Draco said quietly, putting a hand on her arm, although he wasn't sure if it was an attempt to calm her or preparation in case she tried to bodily attack the annoying man. "You go on to the shed, and try out the new Blaze. I'll just watch."

The eyes she turned to him were troubled. Worryingly, he felt a wave of annoyance towards the Auror because the man had upset Weasley like this. "It's not fair," she told him, as though she still believed, after all this time, that anything in the world was fair.

"It happens," he said. "Go on. You probably won't get another chance to ride something so expensive." Normally, he would have expected her to glare at him, or snap something in return. Instead, she just rolled her eyes at him, as though she knew he was deliberately trying to annoy her so she would stop being upset over the injustice done to him. Without a word, she went into the shed and grabbed the new broom, kicking off while she was still inside.

She passed through the door with a whoop of joy, the broom already flying at her old Comet's top speed. Draco found himself grinning a little bit as he watched her spiral up high above the Manor, although a part of him ached with the wish that it were him up there, feeling the rush of cold winter air against his face.

"It's a wonderful broom, isn't it?" Lucius said, coming up behind him. "The reviews don't do it justice."

"That idiot from the Prophet can't fly worth beans, that's why," Draco responded. The incompetence of the Prophet's staff — and most especially its Quidditch columnist — was one of Lucius's favourite topics.

His father hummed in agreement. "It would seem Miss Weasley can." The words were carefully approving. Draco didn't doubt that his father still harboured some grudges, against the Weasleys especially, but they all knew to play nice now that the fate of their family rested in the hands of the Weasleys and their friends. Too, Draco knew that in bringing Weasley here, and letting her ride the new broom that even he hadn't had a go on, he had sent a clear signal to his family that this was one Weasley that was not to be spoken ill of, at least in his hearing. He doubted much would be said, in any case — his mother had seemed quite charmed by Weasley's quick wit and unrefined politeness at breakfast.

"I haven't seen you yet today, Father. A new project?" Draco asked. Banned from many of his old activities, and unwilling to return to Bargles with a guilty verdict and an Auror guard, Lucius had turned his hand to a number of projects over the last few months, trying to stave off boredom. Narcissa's letters had described attempts at guitar, golf and once, disastrously, gardening. Lucius, previously an aristocratic man of leisure, now resembled a working stiff forced into early retirement and unable settle down to a life of quiet relaxation.

"I thought I'd make myself scarce. Miss Weasley has no cause to like me, and I thought it best not to jeopardize your efforts." While he appreciated his father's desire not to upset Weasley, Draco disliked the insinuation that their was an ulterior motive to his association with her. He enjoyed Weasley's company for its own sake, for much the same reasons he appreciated their enmity — if such it still was — and not because her friendship might benefit their family with the Ministry. In fact, he was sure many people would disapprove of his spending time with her, thinking, as Lucius did, that he was only doing it because he had an ulterior motive.

Instead of correcting his father, though, Draco simply said, "Thank you. I doubt the Aurors would be quick enough to protect you if she decided to hex you."

"A talented witch, is she?"

"Well..." Draco paused, thinking back over the hours he had spent studying with her. Weasley wasn't a brainy know-it-all, the way the Mudblood was, but she wasn't stupid like her troll of a brother, either. She was intuitive and bright and, unfortunately, very quick on the draw when he annoyed her. "Yes, I suppose she is," he said. Lucius, he felt instinctively, was not ready to hear more good of a Weasley than that. He'd been more invested in the Dark Lord's schemes than Narcissa and Draco, and had lost more, so it was understandable that his resentment would run deeper.

"Hmm. Pity about the red hair," was all Lucius said. Draco turned away, ending the conversation before his father could suggest that he marry Weasley for the benefit the match would bring their family, as he was sure Lucius would. Draco knew his parents loved each other, but their marriage had been a matter of business as well. Realizing, suddenly and horrifyingly, that he was thinking of marriage and Weasley in the same context, Draco quickly asked about his fathers attempts at gardening to distract himself. He really couldn't think about his enemy like that, even if it would only be a match of convenience.

* * *

He was waiting for her when she landed, leaning against the doorframe of the broom shed and watching her with what looked, at first, to be arrogant indifference. She spotted one of the Aurors standing guard in the shadow of the house, and realized that Malfoy's posturing was likely for the sake of his guard. Malfoy, arrogant little swot that he was, would never allow someone as crass as a mere guard to believe that they could discomfit the Great Poncy Ferret. She smirked a bit at the thought. She'd noticed how he tensed the moment he caught sight of one of the guards.

"How was the ride?" he asked, taking the broom from her. "Drat it, Weasley, you got fingerprints all over it. Don't you ever wash, or can your family not even afford soap?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Auror frowning, obviously disliking Malfoy's tone. Could the man not tell it was a joke, if a rather poor one? "Malfoy, if you could actually fly, instead of buying your way onto the Quidditch team, you'd know that it's hard work."

"That's why I don't do it, then," he countered.

The Auror had relaxed again at his post, but he was still watching them carefully, not realizing that it was all bullshit. Malfoy hardly ever made jokes about her family's poverty, now — the Ministry's attempts to seize his family's property and fortune had made that a touchy subject for him, too — and she knew he'd earned his own place on the Quidditch team — if not initially, then many times since, keeping up with Harry in games. She knew that his hands, which looked so thin and aristocratic from a distance, were hard with calluses, although she couldn't for the life of her remember when it was she'd noticed.

"Thanks, by the way," she said quietly, and was pleased to see him look shocked to hear her say it.  
He grunted. "Merry Christmas," he joked softly.

"Oh." Realization hit all at once. It was Christmas Eve, and she was spending it with Malfoy, of all people, at his family's opulent and soon-to-be-forfeit Manor, not with Ron and his friends, who were almost family, or with any of the rest of her family. She should say something about that, but what she heard herself saying was, "I didn't get you anything."

His eyes were a deep, strange grey when he said, "Freedom." He looked away awkwardly, and said, "Your brother's probably missing you. You should go see him at Hogwarts."

"But how will you get back?"

"I'll manage."

He wouldn't, she knew, not with Aurors watching his every movement. He wasn't expected on the train back to Hogwarts, and he didn't have his wand. And what was she to do, just swan up to Hogwarts with a box of stolen books on the Dark Arts under her arm? "No," she said, reaching a decision. She spoke loudly enough for the Auror to hear. "I'm going to head back to Hogwarts to see my brother and Harry." She thought he flinched a little when she mentioned the black-haired boy, but decided she must have imagined it. "Then I'd like to come back here and have another look at the library, before New Years. Maybe we could go back to Hogwarts together after that?"

"Alright," he said, watching her closely. "You'll have to floo, though. You got through the Apparation wards because you were with me this time, but next time..." She flinched at the idea that she might splinch herself. "Just call ahead so the bastards can let you through." The way his eyes flicked to his guard left her in no doubt about who he was referring to.

"So, I'll see you in a couple of days," she said, awkwardly.

"Yeah."

"Have a good Christmas," she offered.

He sounded even more uncomfortable than her when he replied, "You too." Then Ginny walked into the house and went to find a fireplace to floo back to Hogsmeade, leaving Malfoy standing by the broom shed.

* * *

Even before the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open, Ginny could sense the malevolence, like a dark cloud, that was spreading from the Gryffindor Common Room. Stepping through the portrait hole, she saw Ron and Harry sitting in armchairs near the fire, their hands like claws on the armrests and fierce scowls on their faces. Hermione stood nearby, her expression tight, as though she were fighting to keep a scowl from her face as well.

"What's happened?" she asked, panic building suddenly in her chest. Surely nothing bad could have happened. It couldn't have. _Please, let everything be alright, _she thought.

Ron's head jerked around, and Ginny saw a torrent of emotions sweep across his face before his features settled into an expression of utter relief. "Ginny!" he cried, jumping from his chair and sweeping her into a hug. "We were so worried." Harry and Hermione followed close behind, taking their turns embracing her. Ginny was too shocked to do anything but stand still while they crowded around her. _Would happened? _Any moment now, she would be unable to control her panic, and it would break from her like a river bursting its dam.

"We went by Grimmauld Place, and you weren't there," Hermione said, and Ginny felt her panic subside. Nothing catastrophic had happened — they had only been worried because they hadn't seen her at Grimmauld Place. Although if they had seen her, and Malfoy besides, probably something catastrophic _would _have occurred. "And we looked all over Diagon Alley, too, but we must have missed you."

"Yes," Ginny agreed, gratefully accepting Hermione's explanation. She would have been hard-pressed to think of another excuse for her absence. The only other place she might have gone was the Burrow, but perhaps they would have checked there — and, if they hadn't, they would want to know how George was doing, and she couldn't have lied about that.

"What's that you're wearing?" Ron asked suddenly, and Ginny froze. She had completely forgotten she was wearing Malfoy's old clothes. And trust Ron to finally notice what she was wearing, now of all times. "Those are... blimey, Gin, those are McCormack Cords." Unable to stop herself, Ginny looked down at her trousers.

"Which cords?" Hermione asked, intrigued.

"McCormack. Designed by Catriona McCormack herself. I've always wanted a pair, but they cost an arm and a leg. Where'd you get those, Gin?"

Thinking frantically, Ginny said, "I found them. In one of the bedrooms. They looked really comfortable, so I just..." she shrugged, her imagination failing her.

"They're just quidditch cords, Ron," Hermione said, obviously disappointed that there was nothing truly exciting about Ginny's new trousers.

"Just..." Ron spluttered. "_Hermione. _McCormack makes the best quidditch gear _in the world._ Those trousers are supposed to be tougher than normal leg guards, and they've got these temperature charms on them that..."

"Alright, Ron," Ginny said, afraid that he might go on like this for some time.

He subsided, then said longingly, "I wish I'd found them while we were there."

"They wouldn't have fit you, anyway," Harry pointed out. He, too, was staring at Ginny's trousers, and it was making her feel a bit uncomfortable. Drat Malfoy, being a spoiled little rich brat — there wouldn't have been nearly this much fuss if he could wear normal quidditch cords like everyone else.

"I'm so glad you're back for Christmas," Hermione said, a bit more loudly than necessary, as though trying to make it clear that the conversation was to move away from quidditch and Ginny's trousers.

"So am I," Ginny responded, relieved to be rescued, once again, by Hermione. "Have I missed anything exciting the last few days?"


End file.
